


Take me home

by Hotaru_Tomoe



Series: Bullets [10]
Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bamf!Boris, Because the author loves them, Death of a pet, Followed by more nightmares, M/M, Nightmares, No beta we die like comrades, Pining, Politics, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Valoris, followed by, smut in the last chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2020-06-29 04:05:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 78,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19822177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotaru_Tomoe/pseuds/Hotaru_Tomoe
Summary: Valery is dead.Boris is dying.The past can't be changed.Or yes?





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Забери меня домой](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21331462) by [kotokoshka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kotokoshka/pseuds/kotokoshka)



> This is the story with the happy ending that I promised to Macaron, but to get there I take the characters on the panoramic route.
> 
> Inspired by the HBO show only, no reference or disrespect for real people or real events.

Moscow, July 1st, 1989

The doctor flips through the report of Deputy Chairman Shcherbina's medical exams and then shakes his head.

"I will not lie to you: the outcome isn’t good, Boris Evdokimovich."

"I already knew that."

"You should have followed my advice: going to Armenia was a mistake, it aggravated your health condition."

"I had received direct orders from the General Secretary."

"I could have signed a dispensation for you," the doctor insists.

Boris shrugs: "I don't think staying in Moscow would have changed anything."

"It would have given you time."

"Time for what, Ivan Vladimirovich?" Boris growls.

Ivan has been Shcherbina's personal physician for forty years and has never seen him like this: Shcherbina has always been strong, stubborn, tireless; instead, the man sitting in front of him now is the shadow of what he was, he is a man just waiting to die.

Ivan believes it was Chernobyl that changed him so much; a lot of news has leaked, horrible news about what happened there, but he never dared to ask his patient anything, because you never know who might be listening.

In addition, precise directives have arrived from above to general practitioners like him: if they register an increase in tumors, glandular and hormonal dysfunctions, or spontaneous abortions in their patients, these cannot be related to the accident occurred at the Chernobyl nuclear reactor.

The State has spoken, and he is too close to retirement to challenge what has been decided.

"I'm sorry, Boris Evdokimovich," he sighs. And he is sorry for real, because Comrade Shcherbina is a good man, he spent himself helping others even if he is sick. He didn't deserve to die like that.

"Thanks comrade, I appreciate it. How is Elena Nikolayevna?"

"My wife is fine, thank you. She can’t wait for me to retire from the profession, so we will move to Kaliningrad: my family has a small dacha there."

"Do you want an advice? Do it as soon as you can: time flows quickly."

"Yes, I think I will."

Boris stands up, but when he is already at the door, the doctor calls him back.

"Wait: I can't really do something for you, but I can help you with your breathing problem. I know a French doctor, a fellow member of the local Communist Party, who runs a sanatorium in Corsica: a stay there would do you good."

To Boris, it really makes no difference, but perhaps moving away from the people who killed Valery would wipe away that bitterness that has become a constant in his life.

"If you think it's a good idea..."

"Yes, I think it is: I’ll write a report about your health condition and have it delivered to your office."

For an ordinary citizen, obtaining a visa to leave the USSR is an almost impossible task, but for Boris the procedure is much easier: he is an esteemed member of the party, there is no danger that he will defect, and his health conditions are well known, so a couple of weeks later, he is in a taxi that takes him to the sanatorium outside the town of Bonifacio.

The landscape is bare, wild, the sun is merciless, but the taxi driver is very proud of Corsica, and spends the ride illustrating the beauty of his land.

Boris's knowledge of French is perfunctory at best, but it’s enough to understand and be understood.

He goes into the sanatorium, bringing with him a medical record that is almost larger than his suitcase; the director examines it, and his response is no different from that of Boris’ personal doctor: nothing can be done for him, except to alleviate the fatigue of his lungs with some medications, and with the help of the dry climate of the island.

However, he has about a year to live, no more.

Boris welcomes the news with indifference, a state of mind he’s used to, by now.

It made sense to count how much time he had left to live as long as Valery was still alive, not now.

From the moment of his death, things have changed; they are still changing actually: the tapes left by Valery are circulating among the scientists and this time the KGB has failed to silence him and stop the truth.

In the end they won, the reactors will be modified.

But without Valery, even that victory isn’t the same. Besides, for the State, Valery Legasov is still a name to be erased from people's memory and buried into the oblivion.

Boris has a single room with a small terrace overlooking the sea. On clear days you can see the coast of Sardinia, a nurse informs him, then she hands him the schedule for meals and treatments.

They aren’t binding, and he will have most of the day for himself.

He unpacks the suitcase, carefully placing an old notebook with a crumpled cover in the desk drawer; it contains some of the poems written by Valery. It’s his only possession that he managed to take from his apartment after the suicide, before the KGB sealed it.

He goes out onto the terrace and looks at the sea.

It’s blue and deep, and Valery would have loved that place, maybe he would have written some poems about it.

Two years have passed since the last time they spoke, and more than a year since his death, but Boris didn’t forget him.

Sometimes the pain of the loss is dulled, then suddenly returns, triggered by the most mundane episodes: a little girl with a kitten in her arms reminds him of Valery's smile when he talked about his cat Sasha, the smell of goulash reminds him of the lunches together in the trailer or in the tent at Chernobyl, the evening breeze reminds him of their long walks in the empty town, when they were close and their shoulders brushed. When the KGB agents were too far away and couldn’t see them, Boris passed an arm around his waist or bent over him to steal a quick kiss. Valery was always surprised and blushed, as if Boris's love gestures were something extraordinary for him every time.

"You were the extraordinary one, Valery," Boris whispers in front of the immensity of the sea, his head hanging low.

Boris realizes soon that there isn’t really much to do at the sanatorium, other than sitting in the garden, listening to the incessant chirping of crickets and cicadas, a panama on his head to protect him from the relentless sun.

The town of Bonifacio is too far to reach on foot; he may ask someone to bring him there, but he has no desire to socialize with the locals, so he lets Valery's poems keep him company.

There is only one other building, a little distant from the sanatorium, on top of a hill, severe and imposing, but it’s abandoned, surrounded by a garden overgrown by dry weeds, and it heads towards a silent ruin.

It reminds him of those of Pripyat.

It was a mental hospital, the doctor explains one day, but it was closed due to lack of funding, and the patients moved elsewhere or discharged, if they were judged cured or not dangerous.

One afternoon, Boris sees a man who is pushing a cart full of old radios, broken televisions and metal cables, passing along the road that runs alongside the sanatorium, heading towards the former asylum.

A bag falls from the cart, but the man doesn’t notice it. Boris gets up and picks it up: it's heavy, full of screws and bolts.

"Hey," he calls in his broken French, "you lost this."

The man approaches him: he is young, in his early twenties, thin and sweaty, the long brown hair is stuck to his forehead, his very dark eyes are restive; his manner betrays an evident neurosis, his clothes denote negligence.

"Thank you good man, thank you very much," the boy answers in a perfect French, "they’re very important, I need them. I need everything. Everything."

Then he resumes pushing the cart towards the abandoned building.

"What are you doing up there? There is nobody."

"It's not true," the boy replies, turning around, "I'm there."

Boris returns to the garden of sanatorium, without thinking too much about it: the boy is probably a homeless.

"Ah, I see you met Paulie," a nurse says.

"Weird guy."

"A bit, yes, but he's harmless. He was a patient of the asylum, was discharged when it was closed, but since he didn’t have a place to go, he stayed there. It’s not exactly legal, but since he doesn’t bother anyone, it’s tolerated."

"Why was he in the asylum?"

"Would you believe it? Paulie says he can time-travel."

Time.

Lately it has become a recurring concept.

The time he lived before Chernobyl, so far that it seems to belong to the existence of another man.

The little time he’s left to live.

The time he didn't have with Valery.

A madman who believes he can time-travel.

Boris turns over in bed without being able to sleep.

If it were possible to time-travel, then he would return to the moment of their first kiss.

_Valery was on the roof of a building, measuring the level of radiation, sitting on the concrete with a notebook resting on his legs._

_He did it almost every day, because, in addition to directing the liquidation, he wanted to collect data that would help other nuclear physicists to study the consequences of the accident: he was aware that he couldn’t do it for long._

_Boris walked on the rooftop and stopped at a certain distance from him, observing: for some reason, the image of Valery, bent over himself as he scribbled something, caused him a wave of affection; he sat beside him and waited patiently for Valery to finish his calculations, then handed him a bar of chocolate._

_"Ah, milk chocolate," Valery said with a smile, unwrapping the bar and taking off a little square, "I didn't think you noticed that it’s my favorite."_

_"If you occasionally raise your eyes from your papers, you might see many other things, Valera."_

_Later, Boris couldn’t explain why he came up with such a revealing, honest sentence. Perhaps it was the sweetness of Valery's smile, perhaps the awareness of being alone and not spied on, perhaps the thought of the time slipping away between his fingers._

_Valery stopped chewing the chocolate and looked at him, blinking rapidly, as if he were doing a completely different kind of calculation; his blue eyes lowered briefly on Boris's lips, then he moved abruptly towards him._

_It was a terrible first kiss, a few seconds long, painful clash of noses and teeth, but it was enough to make Boris fall in love, deeply._

_Valery jerked away, his face red, his glasses crooked, ready to apologize, so Boris took his face in his hands, stroking his cheekbones with his thumbs._

_"If you want to kiss me, then do it right."_

_And then he showed him how to do it, moulding their lips together, moving them slowly, savoring the taste of tobacco and chocolate on his tongue, swallowing Valery's tiny moans, as if on that roof, they had all the time in the world._

_But it was a lie, too._

_A lie that incurred the highest debt to the truth._

Boris hasn’t often seen the sea in his life: sometimes the Baltic, a cold, miserable and gray thing, and the Black Sea, on the rare occasion he has given himself a short vacation, but to tell the truth it has never been a noteworthy attraction to him.

Instead in Corsica the sea is completely different, it holds something that fascinates him, and that makes him look at it for hours: so blue and calm on the horizon, and so terrifying near the coast, with its waves roaring and crashing in a white foam explosion on the high rocky cliffs.

Then he understands: the sea reminds him of Valery, of his blue eyes, apparently so mild and calm, hiding a surprisingly strong personality, capable of banging his hands on the table at a meeting in the presence of the general secretary of the party, capable of overriding his order to fly over the open reactor.

His love has taken him offshore, and now, alone, he is no longer able to return to the beach.

One day that man who lives in the asylum, Paulie, arrives and asks to speak with one of the nurses. He holds a paper bag to his chest, he’s tormenting his hair with his fingers and looks more usettled than the other day.

"Your radio. I fixed it, as I promised," he says to the nurse.

"Thanks Paulie, you’re so precious: it's old, but I'm fond of it. Wait here, I'm going to get my wallet to pay you."

"No, no money," Paulie says, rocking on the spot, "I don't need it now. Do you have any broken machinery? Broken beyond repair?"

"Indeed yes, come with me."

Shortly thereafter, Paulie left the sanitarium with a heart rate monitor in his arms, and two sandwiches in a plastic bag. Passing by Boris, he recognizes and nods to greet him.

To be polite, Boris nods in turn.

"Paulie is very good at repairing any appliance or electronic device," the nurse explains, "and he’s content with little money in return, or something that can’t be repaired anymore."

"And the sandwiches?"

"Have you seen how thin he is? I'm a mother, I feel compelled to feed him!"

"What does he do with all that junk?"

"He gets spare parts, I guess."

A few hours later, Boris is ready to spend the umpteenth sleepless night; the noise of the waves follows him through the French door he left open. He turns on his side and, in the shadows, he can almost see Valery lying beside him.

It’s inevitable to think back to their first time.

_Valery was so embarrassed by his nakedness and the intimacy between them that he couldn't get an erection, so Boris made him sit with his back against the headboard, slipping between his legs, and he noticed with a smile that, despite the nervousness, Valery spread them for him._

_Boris used his mouth and hands to excite him, sucking, licking, kissing, caressing, determined, shameless, hungry._

_Valery was panting heavily, shocked, one hand in his hair, the other squeezing the sheet spasmodically, and the orgasm took him by surprise, without giving him the chance to warn Boris; he came on his lips and chin, covering his mouth so as not to scream, then he began to chant a long litany of "forgivemeforgivemeforgiveme", mortified. Boris made him lie down and hugged him, feeling his hot skin against his; in the dark he couldn't see him, but he was sure that Valery was blushing furiously._

_When Valery calmed down, he peppered Boris’ face with kisses, while he slipped a hand down his body and grabbed him, shy, clumsy, too delicate for his tastes, but Boris let him do it, let Valery love him, falling in love with his inexperience._

Boris kicks off the sheet and gets up, rubbing his face: it's not good, at this rate memories will make him die before radiation.

But he can't forget something that's imprinted on his soul by now.

He goes out onto the terrace, breathing the night breeze to calm himself, when he sees a strange glow with the corner of his eye to his left, on the hill where the asylum is.

He thinks that perhaps he’s imagining things, but then the violet glow, like a lightning, shines again in the dark.

Is it Paulie repairing a appliance?

The phenomenon ceases, and Boris returns to his room.


	2. 2

It’s the boredom that drives him to walk up the hill, Boris says to himself, the boredom and a certain fear for the lightnings he saw last night.

He must make sure that nothing strange or dangerous is happening, because he doesn’t have the desire or the strength to be involved in yet another disaster.

The doors of the asylum are wide open, but there is no one in the entrance hall. The dirty and opaque windows create a dark and suffocating atmosphere, dust and plaster fallen from the ceiling creak under his shoes, as he moves beyond the reception desk towards a large room in the back.

On a table there is an assortment of household appliances: vacuum cleaners, televisions, radios, walkmans. Each of them has attached a tag with the owner's name: they are the ones that Paulie fixes for the locals or the rich tourists who dock their yachts at the marina of Bonifacio.

In an adjacent room, however, there are the appliances that Paulie tears in pieces.

Boris bends to the ground to observe better: the boy's work is meticulous and precise, he divides all the components by type and material and stacks up them into ordered piles. He has a huge amount of that junk, but Boris can't understand what he does with it.

"Anybody in? Paulie?" He calls out loud, but no one answers.

The building is huge and Paulie could be anywhere, so he returns to the entrance hall and goes up the stairs, but both on the first and the second floors, the doors that give access to the patients' rooms are closed by a chain and a padlock. The state of the metal, oxidised and rusty, makes him understand that nobody has opened those doors since the asylum closed.

"Who is it?"

Paulie came up behind him, and Boris starts before turning around.

"Ah, it’s you: do you have to have something to repair?" 

Paulie wears a white shirt stained by dust and grease, and he’s barefoot. He’s the portrait of mental illness.

"No, I haven’t."

"Then why are you here?"

"Last night I saw some lightnings coming from this building."

"It's just me working, nothing to worry about, I promise. Scout word.” Paulie laughs and raises two fingers to form a V.

"Hn," Boris concedes, without saying too much.

"What's your name?" Paulie asks, tilting his head to one side, a move that makes him look like a curious puppy. He looks really harmless, as the nurse said.

"Boris Evdokimovich Shcherbina."

"Oh, I realized you weren't French, but not that you were Russian... and do I detect a Ukrainian accent?" Paulie says, starting to speak fluently in Boris's language.

Shcherbina is surprised by the sudden change; he doesn’t detect any particular accent in Paulie's speech and therefore he doesn’t understand where he comes from or where he learned it.

"I don't have Russian origins, if that's what you're wondering," Paulie continues, "it's just one of the languages I speak."

"How many languages do you know?"

"Ten."

At first Boris believes he's just boasting, but there isn’t any trace of lies in that boy's eyes. A lot of neuroses, that’s for sure, but otherwise he’s sincere.

"Do you have a surname, Paulie?"

"No, where I come from we don't have them."

"And where do you come from?" It seems a weird country, if people don't use surnames.

Paulie chuckles almost hysterically: "See, it's not so much a matter of where, but when."

Boris sighs: he has forgotten that he is dealing with someone who has a screw loose.

The hot and dusty environment of the asylum causes him a violent access of coughing, which he suffocates in a handkerchief. When he puts it away, it’s stained with red blotches, and Paulie jumps away from him.

"Whoa, you're not well, Boris Evdokimovich Shcherbina."

"It's not contagious," he explains, and the boy calms down.

"Thank god. You know, I can't afford to get sick now that I'm so close."

"Close to what?"

"To get out of here."

"Nobody holds you back, you can go wherever you want."

"To do that, I need a machine. I almost finished it."

So is Paulie building a car? Perhaps he’s too poor to buy one, but it still seems a very bizarre thing to Boris.

"You said you're Russian: tell me, how did you get a visa to get out of the USSR?" Paulie asks, "are you someone important?"

_ "I'm just an inconsequential man," _ Boris is about to answer, because that's how he feels, but then Valery’s words come back to him:  _ "You were the one who mattered the most," _ and so he puffs his chest out, proudly, because what he and Valery did at Chernobyl is something to be proud about: they fought the apocalypse, they did their best, and that matters.

His country may have decided to cancel what Valery did, but he will remember him.

"Yes: Professor Valery Legasov of the Kurchatov Institute and me directed the liquidation and the construction of the concrete sarcophagus at Chernobyl."

Paulie's answer is once again unsettling: "Oh, that's why I didn't know you."

What the hell does that mean? That the boy hasn’t any interest in what happened?

Boris grumbles, outraged by his uncaring attitude: "Well, maybe you should go out more often and be interested in what's happening in the world."

"Oh, did you get offended?" Paulie holds up his hands, as if to calm him down, "It wasn't what I meant. Obviously, if the Chernobyl accident had happened, I would know who you are."

"What are you saying? The accident happened!" Boris barks, more and more angry.

Paulie's head lolls from side to side and his mouth twists in a sneer, as if to say  _ "not really" _ , and Boris wonders why he’s wasting his time with this lunatic.

He takes a step to go down the stairs and get out of there, but Paulie stops him.

"Surely the nurses and the doctors at the sanatorium told you about me, and why I was here."

"Yes, it's because you think you can time-travel."

"No, I do time-travel." Suddenly, Paulie's perennial agitation disappears, giving way to the cast-iron and unmoved self-confidence of those who know they’re telling the truth.

A self-confidence that throws Boris out of balance.

"I have traveled through time and ended up here, in a timeline that isn’t mine," Paulie reiterates, and the certain tone of his voice reminds Boris when Valery explained to the central committee of the party that yes, he was sure that the core of the reactor was open, because there was graphite on the ground.

"You don't know what you're saying," Boris growls, clinging to rationality.

"Okay, just think that I'm a madman, like everyone else does, I don't care, because I know the truth: in your timeline, in this reality, there was a nuclear accident in Chernobyl, but in the reality where I come from none of this has ever happened."

At this point Boris pushes Paulie aside abruptly and leaves, before he surrenders to the impulse to throw him down the stairs. 

The intense light of the sun outside dazzles him, but Boris shields his eyes with one hand and doesn’t stop, almost running away from that building, the bile that burns his throat.

How dare that guy say such nonsense?

How dare he say that there is a place where Reactor 4 didn’t explode? Where human lives haven’t been and will not be sacrificed? Where people will not suffer in the coming years? Where his land isn’t contaminated?

How dare he give him the idea that there is a place where Valery didn’t die?

That night Boris is so agitated that he doesn't even lie down in bed; he walks nervously back and forth between the room and the terrace, his fists opening and closing, his breath shallow, and not because of his lungs.

He isn’t only angry, he is upset, because in Paulie he recognized a demeanor that he saw several times also in Valery: the unshakable and irritating self-confidence of the scientists when they state that:  _ "This is science, and it doesn’t matter whether you believe it or not, it is true anyway." _

But in this case it can’t be, this is only a proof of how serious Paulie's mental disorders are: he wasn’t cured, and he should have been transferred to another mental institution.

Time travel is a madness and if he's just  **thinking** about listening to that boy, then he's more crazy than Paulie is.

He goes out onto the terrace, grabbing firmly the railing, as if he wanted to eradicate it: he came to Corsica only to spend a couple of weeks in peace, before coming back home to die, not to be upset by a boy with obvious mental health problems.

In the dark of night, the violet lightings that come from the asylum shine again.

Boris closes his eyes, pretending not to have seen them.

He didn't come here for this, he repeats to himself.

However, imagining a reality where Valery is alive is an irresistible attraction, as is the flame for the moth.

The next day he is back in the entrance hall of the asylum, because apparently he’s really a poor, old fool, and that is the right place for him.

"Paulie!" He barks, and his voice resounds loudly on the walls.

Shortly thereafter the boy appears at the top of the stairs leading to the basement of the asylum, but he remains at a distance, awed.

Boris places two aluminum trays on the row of plastic chairs of the hall: in one there are roasted chicken leg quarters and boiled potatoes, in the other a generous slice of plum tart.

"I don’t want to hurt you. Sit down and eat!"

"Uhm... your manners are not up to scratch, Boris Evdokimovich Shcherbina," Paulie mumbles, but the smell of the food is inviting, and so he comes closer.

Boris finds it irritating to be called every time with name, patronymic and surname, but he will certainly not invite Paulie to call him by his name only: they aren’t friends, he just wants some answers from him.

He lets him eat in peace, opening a window to dissipate the oppressive heat of the entrance hall; he looks at the sea and wonders what Valery would think of him right now.

_ "Would you laugh at me because I'm clinging to the impossible? Because, after all this time, I still can't let you go?" _

"Thanks for the lunch, it was very good."

Paulie's voice rouses him from his thoughts.

"I would have brought you some beer or vodka, but obviously they don't have alcohol in the sanatorium."

"Oh, but I have something!"

Paulie runs to the reception desk and pulls out a half-empty bottle of red wine. He uncorks it, take a sip, then passes it to Boris.

The wine is disgusting, hot and acid, but it’s a necessary social lubricant.

"Now tell me, what do you want, Boris Evdokimovich Shcherbina?"

"I want you to explain to me how time-travel works."

"Oh, you don't think anymore that I'm crazy?”

Boris reminds himself of the advice he gave to Valery about the miners: tell the truth.

"I am open to other possibilities."

Paulie laughs, clapping his hands against his thighs.

"I appreciate your sincerity. Alright, I'll tell you everything."

Boris takes another sip of wine: he feels he will need it.

"I come from the year 2067 and I arrived here thanks to a time machine that I built myself, based on a project by Nikola Tesla."

"Who?" Boris asks, frowning.

"A Serbian scientist who lived at the turn of the last century and this. He was a true genius, comparable perhaps only to Leonardo da Vinci. He was the author of extraordinary inventions, but here, in this period, he hasn’t yet been rediscovered. Instead, well, at least from where I come from, in the years to come, people like me will study his theories. 

In 2038, as I was doing research in his native village, I found some of his secret diaries, containing the plans to build a time machine. Some parts were only sketched, so I had to integrate them with my personal studies, but in the end I did it: I built a time machine and used it."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you do that? Why did you build a time machine?"

Paulie remains silent for a few seconds, as if he didn't expect that question, then shrugs.

"I’m a scientist like Tesla, I was fascinated by the idea and the possibility."

"So much to devote to it thirty years of your life? I don't think so."

"Oh, now do you think you know me?"

"I'm not that pretentious, Paulie, but I can recognize a desperate person when I meet one."

And this boy is just as desperate as he is.

"You are intuitive, Boris Evdokimovich Shcherbina, you really are," Paulie gestures animatedly, "and you are right: I wanted to go back to my past at any cost, to the year 2020, to remedy a serious mistake I made, a mistake that conditioned and obsessed me for the rest of my life. But that would be too long a story to tell, and it’s not about time travel."

Boris nods: every man has the right to have his secrets, he has his, too. But then a detail of Paulie’s story hits him.

"Wait a moment: you said you wanted to come back to 2020, but we are in 1989."

"I know, I know, I know," Paulie pulls his hair and stomps his feet on the dirty floor, raising a little cloud of dust, "and that's not all: as I told you yesterday, this is your reality, but not mine: in my timeline, many historical events are different."

"Like Chernobyl?"

"Like Chernobyl," Paulie confirms, "you see, you have to understand that the time machine is extremely complex, it works on the basis of quantum physics and other branches of science that the scientists of your time haven’t yet discovered. 

Unfortunately I discovered at my own expense that, the more back in time you go, the more quantum variables change in a unpredictable way, the space-time fabric is deformed differently than expected, and the machine becomes inaccurate. In fact, I arrived in the year 1986. When I understood what happened... well... I didn't I reacted in a good way, I think I got mad for real..."

"And you ended up in this asylum," Boris concludes.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah... but I'm fine now. I'm fine, I swear," Paulie insists with a nervous laugh.

Boris doesn’t agree that much, but says nothing.

"And what about… uh... the timelines?"

"Ah yes, a significant problem. A real catastrophe, in fact, ha ha ha..."

Boris makes a face, hearing that disturbing chuckle, but Paulie immediately calms down and continues: "There was a fundamental error in Tesla's theory, which I didn't consider," he runs his hands through his hair, disheveling it, then he picks up from the floor a wooden walking stick and places it on his knees, "imagine that this is a timeline: I was here," he indicates one end of the stick, "and let's say I wanted to get here," and indicate more or less the half of it.

"And instead you found yourself further back in time," Boris puts a finger on the wood, almost at the beginning of it, "you already said that, I understand."

"No! It's not just this: I didn't end up on this same stick!" Paulie raises his voice and throws the stick to the ground, "I thought I could go back in time along MY timeline, fix the mess I did, and live again my life from there, but I discovered that time-travel doesn't work like that: once something happened, it happened, and it can't be changed anymore. Using the machine to move forward or backward in time causes you to shift to another timeline, different from the one you come from, because time is not like a straight stick, it's like... it's like... a tree!"

Paulie grabs Boris by his jacket and points to a dead tree in the fallow garden of the asylum: "That one! That's time: every jump moves you from your timeline to an alternative and different one, and once you jump, you can never go back to your past!"

Paulie starts to laugh, at first slowly, then more and more hysterically; he laughs and laughs without stopping, until the hiccups come, but his face is upset and the sounds he makes are creepy like nails on a blackboard.

Boris can't do anything but waiting for him to calm down, sitting stiffly on that uncomfortable little chair, while he looks back at the sea.

So, even assuming that what this lunatic says is true, Valery is dead and will remain dead, that event can’t be changed, like a wave breaking on the shore and disappearing forever. Other waves will follow, but they will never be the same.

The reality where he lives is immutable.

He closes his eyes, feeling like a real fool: he knew it, talking to this boy was a mistake, it only gave him a few minutes of faint hope, only to see it vanish again.

He can't go back to his past and save Valery.

In the end, he is really an inconsequential man.

After a while, Paulie calms down and brings his knees to his chest.

"Sorry, sorry, that was kind of crazy. However, this is the story of how I got here, in the ‘80s of a reality where the USSR and Yugoslavia still exist, nuclear reactors explode, and man hasn’t yet set foot on Mars."

"Is there no USSR in your reality?" Boris asks, quite shocked.

"Of course not. Really, it’s an illiberal regime, so it has suffered the fate of all the illiberal regimes in the history of humanity: it fell."

"You don't know what you're talking about!" He bursts out, in a surge of soviet pride.

"Well, I can understand your point of view, but it's like I say," Paulie says, matter-of-fact, "if it comforts you, the United States will go through an equally horrible period in a few decades."

Boris snorts and drops the subject: it’s useless to argue about politics with this boy.

"Well, thanks for lunch, Boris Evdokimovich Shcherbina, and for having listened to me. As you can imagine, I don't have many opportunities to talk to someone."

"I can bring you something else tomorrow, if you want."

He shouldn't: talking to him is of no use, and it's not good for him, but whether he's completely crazy or he’s telling the truth, this scruffy boy reminds him of the dogs of Pripyat who were left behind alone.

And he isn’t a man who denies a meal to someone who is hungry.

"Do you pity me?" Paulie asks, scratching the back of his neck.

"Yes, a little," Boris admits, "no offense."

"Oh, none taken. It’s okay, you know? Pity is not a wicked feeling."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given that we are still talking about science fiction, I tried to maintain a certain logic regarding time travel.  
> My cornerstones are: the anime Steins;Gate, the wonderful Johnlock fanfiction ["A river without banks"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3204689/chapters/6969521) by Chryse, and some interviews by Stephen Hawking.  
> My idea is that you can’t change your past because, if it were possible, the past would have already been changed, and the event you want to change by coming back in time, wouldn’t exist in the first place.  
> Do you see the problem?  
> That’s why I had to move to an alternative timeline, as they did in MCU Endgame (at least I think, since in the end not even scriptwriters and directors understood what they did in Endgame!)


	3. 3

The days have flowed quickly, and soon Boris will have to leave Corsica to return to USSR.

His breathing is lighter, but his heart is getting heavier.

That night he closes the French window that overlooks the sea, despite the heat, but the sound of the waves still follows him, as if it were inside him now.

_ "There is no way to come back to you, Valery, I flew to the flame and burned myself. Do you pity me?" _

No, Valery would never say that he pities him, he would lower his eyes with that sad smile of his, then hug him, resting his head on his shoulder, holding him tight all night long, as he sometimes did in Pripyat, when the despair prevailed even on Boris’ toughness.

This is what he misses most about Valery, not the sex, but the human warmth and the comfort of having him close in his darkest hour.

He wasn’t allowed to be with Valery while the depression devoured his soul, and he will not have Valery next to him when his body will raise the white flag.

If he were a less strong man, he would burst into tears.

Or maybe he has no more tears to cry by now.

"Chicken again..." Paulie mumbles, poking his chicken breast and spinach with the fork.

"Don't look at me like that: I haven't eaten anything else for two weeks. At the sanatorium they say it’s good for your health," Boris growls. No alcohol and only boiled vegetables, virtually a taste of hell for him.

"Yes, I know, the food of the asylum wasn't very different."

"How did you convince the doctors that you were healed?"

"Oh, I lied," Paulie replies casually, "I told him what they wanted to hear and I was convincing. To tell the truth, it was a fluke for me that the asylum closed, I wouldn't have found another place big enough to work."

"I wanted to ask you for a while: what you are doing with all this junk?"

"I'm building another time machine," Paulie says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"But you told me that you have no chance to return to your timeline."

"True, true, but I can get close to it. It's better than nothing, you know. Better than staying here for sure."

Boris straightens up in his chair. He wouldn't want to be interested, he shouldn't, but he is.

"What?"

Paulie points again to the dead tree in the garden: "As you can see, there are branches that are closer to the trunk, let's call it my original timeline, and other branches that are very far from it. This reality, compared to mine, is very far from the trunk."

"Because you tried to go back many years in time?"

"Exactly! You learn fast,” he laughs.

Boris sighs: why is everyone surprised when he says something clever?

"While I was closed here," Paulie continues, "I analyzed the time-travel theory again, I redid the calculations, corrected the errors, and made changes to the time machine. In the end I reached the conclusion that, by moving a few years between timelines, three or four, instead of tens like I did, you can gradually approach a timeline that’s similar to yours, step by step. There are few differences between the dimensions that are close to each other, it's almost like coming home."

Boris looks at him for a long time with his brow furrowed, before giving voice to his thoughts: "Tell me if I understand correctly: your intention is to continue to jump from timeline to timeline, building a time machine every time, until you will you find one that suits you?"

"Time is the only thing I don't lack, Boris Evdokimovich Shcherbina."

"You should be grateful for this," Boris murmurs, so softly that Paulie doesn’t understand and asks him to repeat, but he shakes his head: he was talking to himself, regretting the time he no longer has.

"Right," Paulie says, "I have my secrets, and you have yours."

"So will you do it soon? The other day you said you were close to leaving."

"Yes, yes, I just have to do some tests and calibrate the machine better."

"But how does it work? I mean, do you appear out of nowhere in the new timeline? And what if you appear on a highway? Or in the middle of the ocean?"

"No, no, it doesn't work like that," Paulie laughs again, "as I told you, the time machine is based on quantum physics."

"It means nothing to me, Paulie!"

"Okay, let me explain: inside the machine your body is broken down quantumly at a subatomic level, and your essence, so to speak, is poured into your body in the new timeline. The body becomes a kind of container for yourself, but you keep the memories and the experiences of the timeline you come from. For example, my body here is twenty years old," Paulie puts a hand on his chest, "but when I left, in 2067, I was 100. Well, 99 actually... "

"You were very old."

"Quite."

"How much longer would you have lived, 3 or 4 years?"

"Likely."

"Despite this, you wanted to time-travel anyway."

"It was worth trying, despite the mess and the completely disastrous outcome, it was worth it. Yes, yes," Paulie says with a serenity that contrasts with his usual nervous manners, "thank you for lunch again, but now I have to get back to work."

Boris leaves the building to return to the sanatorium, when, among the dry weeds of the garden, he notices a dark spot. He approaches it cautiously and kneels: it’s something charred; he recognizes thin tails and shrunken legs.

"They are rats," Paulie confirms, from the shadow of the entrance hall of the asylum, "as I explained to you, the calibration of the machine is complicated and requires some tries. It's not something I'm proud of, but it had to be done. Better them than me, don't you think? And then the rats are considered an invasive species in Corsica."

It’s a madness, a gigantic madness, Boris says to himself, as he walks away.

Below him, the waves of the sea break against the cliff.

But after all, hasn't his life become a madness, from the moment of the accident onwards?

Boris no longer goes to see Paulie in the asylum in the following days; he doesn’t even go out into the garden, using weariness as an excuse, and spends most of his time lying in bed, or on the terrace, holding Valery's poetry notebook in hands.

He has taken many difficult decisions in his life since he went into politics. Controversial decisions, terrible decisions, decisions that he regretted, decisions that he was proud of, decisions that were pointless, but he never hesitated.

Now he is hesitating, he is torn by doubt.

His suitcase is ready, the plane ticket to go back to Moscow is on the bedside table: a couple of days more and then he'll be home.

If he can still call that place "home".

Or he could go back to Paulie, tell him about Valery and how much he loves him, and ask him to use the time machine to go back in time, before that damned April 26th, 1986, even if in a different timeline.

On one side there is the cold rationality, the pragmatism that accompanied him throughout his life, which puts a hand on his shoulder and speaks to him:  _ "Boris, how old are you? Have you ever heard so much nonsense at once? Time-travel doesn’t exist, it’s a fairy tale. That lunatic maybe has built something that fries rats, but certainly not a time machine. He's out of his mind, and that's why they locked him up in an asylum. Take that ticket, go home, learn to deal with your regrets, and then die. There is no other way, my old friend. And even admitting that what he says is true, Paulie himself said that you can't change your past." _

But there is another voice, faint, uncertain, newborn, but as stubborn as the man to whom it belongs, who gently takes his hands and whispers: _ "Would a lunatic be so lucid? Would he put up a story so coherent, so articulated? And why, then? Boris, you looked into his eyes and recognized the light within: that boy is a scientist. You know how scientists are like: naive, idealistic, hopeless, but they always tell the truth. You can't save the Valery you've known and loved, it's true, but does the idea that there is another Valery, in another timeline, leave you unimpressed? Do you really want to go back to Moscow and die like an inconsequential man, knowing that you could have the chance to save him and everyone else? That you could almost go home?" _

He remembers Paulie words, who, after having studied about it for three decades, at the end of his life decided to time-travel; his dark eyes come back to Boris’ as he nods and says:  _ "It was worth trying." _

Boris leaves the sanatorium to go to the asylum one Thursday afternoon, accompanied by a light breeze blowing from the sea. 

A good part of him still thinks that he will come back soon, and tomorrow he will be on that plane to Moscow, but the other voice inside him eventually got the upper hand.

In the garden, the pile of charred rats has grown.

Boris sighs: he doesn't know whether to take it as a good sign or not.

"Paulie!" He barks, entering the asylum. He waits a few minutes, but the boy doesn't show up.

"Paulie!" He shouts again, but his words echoes against the bare walls and then die without receiving an answer.

What have happened to him? Has he already left?

_ "What do you think it’s happened to him? By continuously playing with electricity, he ends up charred like those rats,"  _ the rational part of his brain insists on telling him.

One day he saw Paulie coming up from the basement, and that's where he goes. At the bottom of the stairs the light is dim, but there is a flashlight on the ground. He switches it on, illuminating a damp corridor, at the end of which there is a heavy red metal door.

Boris opens it and finds himself in a low-ceilinged room, where the building's electrical panels were once housed. 

Obviously Paulie also dissected those, to build the object that Boris is illuminating with the flashlight.

It’s a sort of small bathysphere without portholes, that can hardly accommodate a crouched person in it, assembled with the most disparate metal plates welded together; kilometers of cables run on the floor, ending up into what looks like a complicated control panel, while at least thirty car and truck batteries and transformers are stacked behind the bathysphere.

"Paulie!" Boris calls him again, but he has the feeling that the boy won't answer him anymore.

He opens the door of the bathysphere with some difficulty: it’s empty, but in a sense it’s a relief, given that a part of Boris expected to find the charred remains of the boy inside.

"Dammit!" He hisses, leaning against the machine: he hesitated too long, and now his chance has faded: no matter if it’s really possible to time-travel or not, he will never find out by himself, as that machine is too complicated, and he doesn’t know where to put his hands.

The beam of the flashlight illuminates an envelope resting on the control panel.

_ "For Boris Evdokimovich Shcherbina" _ is written in such neat Cyrillic letters that they seem to be typewritten, so he opens it without hesitation, keeping the sheet far from him in order to read, and curses himself: he shouldn’t have left his reading glasses in his room.

_ "Hi, Boris Evdokimovich Shcherbina, _

_ if you are reading this letter, be happy for me, because it means that I did it, and I left for my long journey across time and space, in the hope of finding peace one day. _

_ Of course, I’m aware that I will never go back to my world, that what I lost, I lost it forever, but for me this is a new beginning, and it means that in another timeline, I will have people to protect and errors that I will not do again. _

_ I want to see it that way, and I think you should see it that way too. _

_ But maybe you're wondering why I'm telling you these things. _

_ I’m sure that in these days you got an idea of me, of my story, of what pushes me to go on, maybe you have also made assumptions about what I wanted to change from my past, but see, a conversation between two people is always bilateral, and I also got an idea of you. _

_ I understood that you and I are very similar (save for the neuroses, that you don't have, and I envy you a lot for this, know it), we have demons that stay with us every moment of our lives, that weigh on our soul, that keep us awake at night. _

_ You told me that you can recognize a desperate person when you see one, but you know what? I know how to recognize them too, and you, Boris Evdokimovich Shcherbina, are just as desperate as I am: you too have something in your past that you want to change. _

_ And since you brought me food, you listened to me, and you opened up to the possibility that I said the truth (do you think I don't know how crazy my words sound when I talk about time-travel? I'm perfectly aware of it), I want to offer you the opportunity to do so. Despair is horrible, nobody should feel it. _

_ You have to be careful, though, because if things go wrong, you're not a scientist like me, you won't be able to build another time machine and move again to another timeline, you'll be stuck there forever: make sure that it doesn’t become your hell. _

_ My advice is not to go back more than four years and, please, I beg you to follow it, otherwise you will end up in a horrible place, like I did. _

_ On the second sheet you will find the instructions for turning on the machine, I am almost certain that the batteries will still have enough charge for another trip. The process will leave you strongly dazed for a few hours, but it will pass, so don't panic, stay calm, possibly lying down, and you'll be better soon. _

_ And then... it all depends on you. _

_ Good luck. _

_ Paulie" _

"Good luck to you too, Paulie, wherever you are now."

The instructions are clear and, luckily for him, quite simple: it's about turning on the transformers, pressing a series of buttons and pushing levers in a specific order, and waiting for the green lights to blink.

Boris remembers the moment when the lunar rover came to life on that roof, he remembers the tension and the hope on Valery's face, his fists clenched under his chin, like a child praying that Ded Moroz brought him what he wanted, he remembers the relief when the rover moved, and Valery's shy smile, so beautiful and spontaneous that he couldn’t resist and hugged him.

And maybe, maybe now he can see that smile again.

Finally he must set the date he wants to return to.

Paulie warned him not to go too far back in time and, although Boris regrets not being able to meet Valery as a young man, he decides to listen to him, and stay prudently within that limit: he doesn't want to end up in a timeline completely different from his, where maybe Valery doesn't even exist.

But he must arrive before the Chernobyl accident and prevent it at any cost: his time window is narrow.

He joins his hands in front of his mouth and reflects, while he walks back and forth: if the defect of the RMBK reactors were discovered beforehand, the directors of the nuclear power plants could be warned, and this will prevent the chain of events that led to the explosion.

He’s the head of the Bureau for Fuel and Energy, nuclear power plants are under his jurisdiction, he has room for some maneuvers.

It’s true that it took Valery and Khomyuk months to discover the reasons of the accident, but it’s also true that they were groping in the dark, while now Boris knows why the reactor exploded, he can push them in the right direction.

Of course he will have to do it without telling them that he comes from the future of an alternate timeline, or he will end up like Paulie, and asylums in the Soviet Union are perhaps worse than the KGB prisons.

January 1st, 1986.

It seems a good compromise between the time limit of four years and the time it takes to study and bring to light the reactor defect.

Once the date is set, a low hum rises from the machinery around him.

Only one more thing is to be done: to enter the bathysphere, sit on the floor and press the blue button in front of him.

If this is only an illusion, nothing will happen, and he will return to Moscow, where he will die suffocated by his own blood.

If Paulie was wrong, he will end up charred like those rats, but maybe it's a better end than a long illness.

But if that man was right...

His thoughts come to a halt, because the walls of the bathysphere light up with violet flashes, and suddenly it’s as if all the cells of his body separate, existing as single entities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whatever happened to Paulie, I wish him luck, too.  
> If you ask me, I'm sure everything will be fine for him.
> 
> Ded Moroz is a figure of Slavic folklore, similar to Santa Claus. He brings gifts to children who have been good on new year’s eve.
> 
> I really don't know if Shcherbina, as head of the Bureau for fuel and energy, had any jurisdiction on nuclear reactors (probably not), but looking at his Wikipedia page, I noticed that his office was named “Minister of Constructions for Oil & Gas Industry”, which sounds slightly different. He also appears to have held this office only until ‘84, only after he became a deputy chairman.  
> Instead, on the HBO show, he holds both offices at the same time. So, if Mazin played a bit with his role, I'll do it too.


	4. 4

Moscow, January 1st, 1986

_"In the coming days, a heavy snowfall is expected on the capital, then it will gradually extend to Jaroslavl and Novgorod, while rains are expected on Leningrad and Tallin..."_

The faraway voice of the anchorwoman is the first thing that Boris is aware of.

He opens his eyes slowly but the world is strangely out of focus: he sees a living room around him and a television, from where it comes the voice of the woman who is reading the news.

Confused, he tries to talk, but no sound comes out of his mouth, and he can’t move his heavy and numb limbs, as if they’re paralyzed.

His breathing becomes faster, the panic assaults him, but then he remembers the words of Paulie's letter: it’s normal to feel disoriented, he must recalibrate himself on the new timeline.

Meanwhile, the anchorwoman has finished reading the weather forecasts.

_"And finally, comrades, I wish you all a happy 1986."_

If he could, Boris would fist pump, like he did when the first lunar rover moved on the roof of reactor 4: it worked, it really worked, he traveled back in time.

The moth flew through the flame and survived.

_"I'm here Valera, I'm back."_

The hours that follow are long and frustrating: he would just like to get up, to know more about this reality; his mind is already clear, but his body still doesn't cooperate.

The room slowly returns into focus, and Boris recognizes the living room of his apartment in Moscow; it’s almost the same, if it weren’t for the blue upholstery instead of the beige one, and for the absence of family photos on the side table next to the armchair.

The sensitivity in his limbs returns with an intense and annoying tingling, and finally he can get up and move some uncertain steps, leaning heavily on the furnitures.

Without wasting any more time, he sits at his desk and opens the last drawer where, in his old timeline, he keeps all his personal and business documents, and fortunately it’s the same here.

He’s still a Deputy Chairman and Head of his Bureau, and the members of the central committee and of the other Bureaus are the same, including Charkov.

At first he feels a strong disappointment: it would be nice if that detail was different, but then he realizes that it’s an advantage to deal with people who are already familiar to him. He comes from 1989, knows facts that the others ignore, and therefore he can handle them more easily.

Then he goes on to look around in his personal life, where he finds the biggest difference with the reality he comes from: he has no children, his wife isn’t dead, but the two of them divorced several years ago, and then he never got married again.

There are no photographs of his wedding day, and he knows his wife's name only because it is written on the papers, so it must not have been an important relationship, or it ended very badly.

He questions himself briefly about the reasons for the divorce, then he looks around: all the logs, books and documents he has at home are about his work assignments, probably he has never put the family in the first place in his life, and at one point his wife got tired of this.

It doesn’t come as a surprise, after all. Boris has always directed his efforts towards his career, ever since he began to take an interest in politics: he wanted to be someone important and aspired to a prestigious office.

But then something much more important fell unexpectedly in his life, a clumsy but resolute scientist, with a point of view opposite to his, a man who has overturned his world.

His stomach gurgles and he realizes he’s incredibly hungry, as he hadn’t been in months; he takes a deep breath and it doesn't cost him any effort, even his bones don't hurt anymore and fatigue, which had become a habitual companion, has disappeared.

He goes into the bedroom to look at himself in the mirror, and runs a hand over his face, incredulous, because he can barely recognize himself: he is a tad younger than he used to be, the dark circles under his eyes are gone, his gray hair is thick again, his face no longer shows signs of pain and illness, his skin is rosy, and his body is that of before the accident. He is in excellent shape for his age.

There are no lethal radiations that are killing him.

He gives himself a little smile, then he sits on the bed and bursts out laughing coarsely, overwhelmed by an irrepressible happiness.

Now it would be easy to be overwhelmed by euphoria, but he must to stay calm: he has only this opportunity to fix everything, so he can’t make any misstep.

His stomach growls again, so he goes into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator, finding several portions of food to heat: he must have a housekeeper who cooks and comes every now and then to keep the house tidy also in this timeline.

"Thank you Maria, you are my salvation in any reality," he murmurs.

He goes for a bowl of borscht and Chicken Kiev, realizing that he was really starving; after eating he feels drowsy, so he throws himself on the bed, with the idea of closing his eyes five minutes.

He reopens them only the next day, just before six in the morning, amazed to have slept so much, but perfectly rested and full of energy.

An hour later he’s already in his office. Tatyana, his secretary, hasn't arrived yet. The building is still semi-desert, to tell the truth, because it’s really early.

He takes the register logs with the organization charts of the various Soviet institutes, flipping frantically through the pages up to that of the Kurchatov Institute, then scrolls down to find the name he is looking for: Valery Alekseevich Legasov, first deputy director.

He collapses in his chair, releasing a breath he didn't realize he was holding: Valery exists in this timeline too, and he’s always in his place.

He caresses his name with his fingertips, as he so often did with his scarred cheeks.

"Valera," he says softly.

Now he can get to work: his plan is to propose to Gorbachev to set up a commission to study and improve the efficiency and the safety of nuclear reactors, as a goal of his Bureau for the new year. Then he’ll involve Valery and Khomyuk, who will write a report with new recommendations.

The report certainly can’t come from him, because he isn’t a nuclear physicist, it would be strange if he suddenly gave the impression of being an expert, the wrong people would start asking questions, but if two esteemed members of the Academy of Sciences do it, then it will be perfectly normal.

At this moment no reactor has exploded, there are no propaganda numbers to give to the West and lies to cover, the central committee will be more willing to agree to make changes to the reactors, because it would be normal (improvements in technology happen every day), and above all, the directors of the nuclear power plants will be informed of the defect of the RMBK reactors.

There will be no disaster in Chernobyl on April 26th.

He takes all the documents he finds about the nuclear reactors: the technical manuals are completely incomprehensible to him, but he doesn’t need them for now, he just has to convince Gorbachev to make him put together a commission.

When Tatyana arrives a couple of hours later, she finds him tapping quickly on the typewriter.

"Comrade Shcherbina, I didn't know you were already there. Do you want me to do it?” Usually she writes his papers.

"Don't worry, take care of the ordinary correspondence instead."

"Very well, I will submit the answers for your review before sending them."

"It’s not necessary."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Tanya, how many years have you been working as my secretary?"

"For thirteen years, comrade."

"Then you know how to do it. It’s time to make some changes in this bureau, and I trust your judgment."

The woman smiles, clearly proud.

"Thank you, comrade."

"And, Tanya?"

"Yes?"

"Take an appointment with General Secretary Gorbachev as soon as possible."

The "as soon as possible" by Soviet standards is very far from the idea Boris has of it.

Two, three, four days go by without an answer, and Boris fears that his request has been buried under an avalanche of other paperwork. He is about to insist, even though he is aware that it could create irritation, but a countdown has started, and he must prevent the accident.

Finally Tanya announces that the general secretary will receive him in three days, after 6.30 p.m..

Shortly before the offices close, if Boris still had doubts about how little important he is in there. But perhaps this time this will play in his favor: being insignificant means attracting less attention and less curiosity.

Gorbachev receives him along with Ryzhkov, Shadov and Charkov (obviously he’s always everywhere).

"What did you want to talk about, Boris Evdokimovich?" Gorbachev begins, "I hope it doesn't take too much time, Raisa and I have guests for dinner."

"Oh, someone I know?" Ryzhkov asks.

 _"Useless bootlicker,"_ Boris thinks hastily, as he hands out copies of his report, but he politely waits for them to finish talking.

"I will be very brief, comrade general secretary. The report describes the objectives for the year 1986 for the bureau I direct. After doing some research, I saw that the nuclear reactors show some issues, indeed, over the years there have been some malfunctions. I therefore wanted to ask your permission to put together a team of experts to assess the risks and the possible improvements."

"I don't know, I have some doubts about it: to say that the Soviet reactors can be improved is like to say that they are defective now," Charkov quietly observes, with his usual sphinx smile that causes to Boris the violent desire to punch him in the face.

"I only wish that the State doesn’t have to face the consequences of a possible nuclear accident."

"This is commendable, comrade, but how likely is an accident to occur?" Charkov insists.

"I'm not a nuclear physicist," Boris admits, "but from what I've read, not so remote. Of course, an expert would be able to explain why much better than me." 

Boris knows that he can’t play the card of the naive idiot, he has never been and wouldn’t be believable, but he can tone down his alpha male attitude, be reasonable and concerned for the wellbeing of the State: it’s a topic that always captures Gorbachev’s attention. "But if you don’t agree, I will put aside my project, and we will continue to rely almost exclusively on coal as we have done so far," he continues.

"Coal is an excellent source of energy, you should know that, comrade!" Shadov chimes in, offended as if Boris had just insulted his family. He is a man who takes his role of Minister of the coal industries very seriously. He is also a pathetic idiot, according to Boris, indeed he is already showing his stupidity.

"I know, but it's not eternal."

"The Soviet Union has huge stocks of coal, comrade Shcherbina."

"True, but I think it would be prudent for the State not to depend totally on the miners. As far as I know they’re stubborn and not very malleable people."

He uses the word "miners" instead of "coal" on purpose, because this is one of his secret aces to play: in his old timeline, one day Gorbachev, during a meeting, confided that he was afraid of the miners and how the nation was dependent on their work, because it could become a weapon of blackmail in their hands.

His blow hits the target, because Gorbachev straightens up in his chair and for the first time seems interested in his request.

"What about the other tasks entrusted to your bureau, Boris Evdokimovich?"

"There are no problems about them."

"Very well, then proceed to form the commission, I will gladly listen to their conclusions."

"Forgive me, comrade general secretary," Charkov intrudes, "but if the report of the experts will point out some problems in our power plants, did you consider what would happen if the news crossed our borders?"

"Comrade Charkov, if I'm not mistaken it's your department's job to make sure this doesn't happen," Gorbachev replies, and his tone gets colder, almost annoyed at the objection, "besides, it would be much more difficult to keep secret the news of a nuclear accident, don't you think?"

"Certainly, of course," Charkov looks down and hurries to agree.

Boris is very careful not to show anything of the immense satisfaction he is feeling.

"Very good gentlemen, if there is nothing else, I wish you a good evening."

Gorbachev leaves the rooms and so does Boris: he obtained exactly what he wanted, but he’s well aware that Charkov is still observing him. 

It’s clear to him that Charkov considers his request strange, and that he will spy the commission at the first opportunity, but this time Boris is ready to fight back with all the weapons he has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that this chapter is a bit boring, political meetings aren't interesting, but it was essential for plot reasons.  
> In the next chapter, Boris and Valery will meet again.


	5. 5

Boris dials the direct line to Valery's office at the Kurchatov Institute, and taps impatiently his fingers on the table while the phone rings once, twice, three, four times.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't rehearse the phone call in front of the mirror that morning. And he didn't even feel too stupid by doing it.

Finally someone answers, but it's not Valery's voice.

"Hello, who’s there?” Asks the stranger at the other end of the line.

"This is Boris Shcherbina, Deputy Chairman of the Council of Ministers and head of the Bureau for Fuel and Energy, I'm looking for Valery Legasov."

"Legasov isn’t here now, but whatever you need, you can ask to me. My name is Evgeny Velikhov, I’m a nuclear physicist and I work here."

Boris recalls that Valery mentioned Velikhov several times while they were working at Chernobyl: he was a rival of him at the Institute, and constantly criticized his decisions regarding the liquidation, even though he never set foot in the exclusion zone.

Instinctively he doesn't like this other version of the nuclear physicist too, since he called Valery using only his last name, without his academic title or ‘comrade’. It’s not difficult to guess that Velikhov doesn’t respect Valery.

"No, I want to talk with Professor Legasov only, I have a government job for him. Where can I find him?"

"Deputy Chairman Shcherbina, if I may insist: I’m qualified as much as Legasov, and any advice you need..."

"Velikhov!" Boris interrupts him abruptly, already tired of that ass-kisser, "Mikhail Gorbachev gave me carte blanche for this assignment, and I chose Valery Legasov. Do you think you have more authority than me or Gorbachev?"

"No, I didn't mean..."

"Then can you tell me where Professor Legasov is, or should I talk with your superior, complaining about your lack of cooperation?"

"Legasov is in Smolensk for a conference and will be away for a few days, but I..."

Boris closes the call without caring about Velikhov’s complaints.

In Smolensk they can't say where is Valery right away, so Boris raises his voice, and they assure him that they will find the professor as soon as possible.

In the meantime, he calls the Belarusian Institute for Nuclear Energy and talks to Ulana.

"Comrade Khomyuk, you've been appointed to be part of a commission that will review the RMBK nuclear reactors safety protocols."

"Could you be more precise? The security protocols concern the reactors themselves, staff training, anti-terrorism measures...?"

"You will know when you’re here. The central committee has booked you a hotel room, we are waiting for you tomorrow."

Khomyuk doesn’t answer, so Boris speaks again.

"Are you still there, comrade?"

"Yes, I was wondering what’s the reason for such haste: usually commissions are planned well in advance, unless there is a problem already."

"This is a political decision that doesn’t concern you, have I been clear?"

"Certainly comrade," she replies, "I will see you tomorrow," and then she hangs up, without apologizing or being intimidated.

Boris raises the corner of his mouth in a smirk: that woman has personality, in any timeline.

More than an hour passes before his phone rings again.

"Hello?"

"It’s Valery Legasov," the voice says, “I’ve been called by you,” and Boris inhales violently, holding his breath.

His head is spinning.

Valery's voice, which he hadn’t heard for more than two years, which he believed he would never hear again.

Valery.

"Er... hello? Are you still there?” Valery asks, puzzled by the long silence.

"Yes, yes. I'm Boris Shcherbina."

"I know, they explained to me who you are. Can I do anything for you?"

"Yes, you must return immediately to Moscow, you are a member of a commission for the review of the safety protocols of RMBK reactors. I’m waiting for you tomorrow morning."

"This isn’t possible," Valery protests, "I’m at a conference right now and I’ll not be back in Moscow before Tuesday. You can ask some other colleague of mine."

Boris adores Valery with all his heart, but he had forgotten how tiring it was to deal with a scientist who ostentatiously ignores the reasons of politics.

"Mine is not an invitation to a party, Legasov!" Boris barks, partly to convince him, partly because he’s seriously exasperated, "I chose you for this commission and you’ll be there! Be in my office at the Kremlin tomorrow morning, or I will send someone to pick you up."

“What?”

“Cross it out: I’d come to get you myself, even if I’ve to carry you over my shoulder.”

"Well, okay then," he replies angrily, and hangs up.

Boris isn’t offended, he is rather amused: apparently, their relationship always starts with some sparks.

That evening, leaving his office, he placed his right hand on Tatyana's desk; the woman immediately stops typing and looks at him.

"Is something worrying you, comrade Shcherbina?"

"The experts predict it will be a very hot spring, I fear an annoying invasion of ants as we have had in the past."

The woman nods slowly: "Until now I haven’t seen anything, but I will be very careful and will inform you as soon as I see an insect."

"Thank you Tanya, I know I can always count on you."

Boris is sure that Charkov will place microphones in his office to check on his commission. What perhaps Charkov ignores, is that nobody likes the KGB: the bureaus are rather irritated of being treated like children who must be supervised, and inform each other when someone is placed under surveillance.

Another weak point of Charkov is his underestimation of the secretaries working in the Kremlin: they are invisible for the KGB because they are considered irrelevant, but those women are the first to arrive, the last to leave, and inevitably listen or read very interesting information.

Boris never made the same mistake.

"Comrades Legasov and Khomyuk are here," announces Tatyana.

"Let them pass."

Boris hardly notices Ulana, his eyes are only for Valery, strawberry hair, blue eyes hidden behind thick lenses, wrinkled shirt and crooked tie.

Valery, warm and alive in front of him, not dead on a morgue table.

Valery, without the horrible purplish mark of the rope around his neck.

Boris clenches his fists to suppress the urgency to crush Valery in his hug and rest his lips on his hair. He breathes deeply and blinks to fight the tingling in his eyes, already moist, and swallows to loosen the lump in his throat.

He knew that the emotion of seeing him again would be intense, and he thought he was prepared, but he’s not.

But he is a strong man, he always has been, and after a moment of hesitation, which Ulana notes, he invites them to sit down.

"Well, can we know the reason of this sudden meeting?" Valery asks, still annoyed at being taken from the conference, "the last time I sent a memorandum to this bureau about the RMBK reactors safety it was two years ago, but I haven’t had any answer, as usual, so why now?"

"Memorandum?" Boris asks, taken aback: in the last few days he has sifted through all the documents in the file cabinets in his office, to study that timeline, but he found nothing of Valery.

"Oh, so you didn't even read them," Valery shakes his head bitterly, "and I thought I'd been summoned to discuss that."

"I'm afraid they never came to my attention," Boris admits.

"I shouldn't be surprised," Valery replies, shrugging, while he lights a cigarette, "nobody listens to me when I speak. Or when I write."

Boris intercoms to Tanya, but not even the formidable memory of his secretary recalls having ever seen a memorandum from Professor Legasov's about the nuclear reactors.

"They were probably archived at a lower level of this bureau," the woman suggests.

Boris will investigate into it as soon as possible, but now he tries to catch Valery's gaze again.

"Perhaps in the past some carelessness has occurred, and I will make sure to correct that," he admits, "but now I’m asking for your help: I want you to conduct an in-depth study on the criticality of RMBK reactors, and how to prevent accidents. The State needs you."

 _"I need you, Valera, because if you don't help me, in four months a catastrophe will happen. It will cost the lives of thousand people, and my being here will have been completely in vain,"_ he thinks, tightening his lips, and something in his gaze hits Valery, who nods and leans towards him.

"Comrade Shcherbina, may I ask you what you know about a nuclear reactor?"

"I know that the nuclear fission releases energy, the energy heats the water that circulates in the core, transforming it into steam, and the steam sets in motion a turbine, generating electricity. Well, simply put, obviously..."

"No, no, that's right!" Valery exclaims with an admiring smile, ignoring that in another timeline, he explained to Boris how a reactor works.

"And what are your concerns about safety?" Ulana chimes in. She has been silent until then, observing the dialogue between the two men.

"I want you to find out in what circumstances a RMBK reactor can explode."

Valery and Ulana exchange a surprised look, and when he turns back to him, Valery is pretty embarrassed.

"Comrade, I don’t know how to put this, but a RMBK reactor can’t explode. Due to a malfunction the temperature can rise to the point of causing the core to melt, but a reactor isn’t an atomic bomb."

"Legasov, you were the one who sent memoranda about the RMBK reactors to this bureau, because you had concerns."

"Yes, but I never talked about explosions, this is alarmist hysteria," Valery blurts out, putting out his cigarette.

"There are many reasons of concern about a RMBK reactor, but an explosion isn’t among them," Ulana says.

Boris can't believe his ears: their roles have turned upside down, now he has to convince them that they are wrong, that a reactor can explode.

It will explode.

He knows it.

But the two scientists don’t, can't know it, not yet.

"What if you are wrong? What if there’re facts that you underestimated or don’t know? You are a scientist, can you at least consider the possibility of being wrong? If you are right, you’ll write it in the final report, and General Secretary Gorbachev will be happy, but if I’m right, maybe we can avoid a serious accident. But I can't do it alone."

While he speaks, his eyes never leave Valery's and eventually the scientist nods solemnly.

"No, no, you're right, Boris: us physicists know very well how dangerous nuclear energy can be, and if there is only a small reason of concern, it’s right to investigate further into it. I’m honored to be part of this commission."

Valery hasn’t realized that he has just called him by his first name, but Boris's heart did, and it skips a beat.

Ulana simply nods her consent, and Valery continues: "First of all, we must find a place to work."

"At the Kurchatov Institute?" Ulana suggests, but Boris shakes his head: "The State prefers this committee to work discreetly."

Working at Kurchatov would involve too many ears and too many eyes, and then Charkov would have a leverage to bring Gorbachev back to his side.

The woman understands immediately, while Valery blinks, frowning a little: politics will never be his cup of tea, Boris thinks with a little smile.

"Then at my place," Valery says, "there is room to work and all the manuals and books we need."

"I’ll call Dmitri, a collaborator of mine in Minsk, and I have the blueprints of the plants sent to me. Obviously we will need time to produce results,” Ulana adds.

"We have it," Boris confirms.

For now, at least.

The two scientists take their leave and, once on the Red Square, Ulana gives Valery an amused look.

"Do I have something on my face?" He asks, embarrassed.

"You didn't realize it."

"Realized what?"

"You called comrade Shcherbina, ‘Boris’."

Valery suddenly stops, a horrified expression painted on his face.

"Oh my... I did! I don't know what came over me... now he will be furious with me."

"No, I don't think so: Shcherbina likes you a lot."

"How can you tell?"

Ulana just gapes: she can't believe his naivety. "Are you kidding, right? He looked at you and talked to you only, I was invisible."

"Don’t get angry about it, comrade: in politics, a certain degree of male chauvinism is the norm."

Ulana doesn’t says anything, but she doesn’t think it’s male chauvinism, at all.

Boris said to himself that it’s completely normal if he shows up at Valery's apartment: he is in charge of that small commission, he has to monitor their progress.

And for the bottle of vodka in the paper bag, well, it's rude to show up at someone's place empty-handed.

In his old timeline, Boris has never been to Valery's apartment, there had been no occasion, but he always wondered why he lived in such a low-class neighborhood: with his position at the Kurchatov Institute he could aspire to living in a more elegant zone of Moscow. He could have better, if only he wanted to.

But maybe it's not that Valery doesn't want it, it’s that he doesn't care, just as he doesn't care about having perfectly ironed shirts and a fixed tie. As a scientist, he is a naive and an idealist and is interested only in the truth.

Totally the opposite of the political world, where Boris has spent most of his life.

Perhaps it's one of the reasons he fell in love with him. After all, it’s true that opposites attract.

Valery is surprised to see him: his eyes widen and an unlit cigarette hangs from his lips.

"Uh... hello."

"Hello Valery," he says calmly: if Valery called him by his first name, he doesn't see why he shouldn't do the same, "I thought to come to see if you needed anything."

"It’s very kind of you... Boris," Valery hesitates before using his name again, and Boris seems to see a blush under his freckles, but the corridor is too dark to be sure.

"Do we have to carry on this conversation on your doorstep?"

"Oh... oh no! Of course not, take a seat, but come in quickly, or my cats will run out. "

"Cats?"

Does he have more than one in this timeline?

Valery shows him the living room, already transformed into a chaotic office, with blueprints of reactors hanging on the walls, manuals open on every flat surface, and the floor covered with sheets.

On the kitchen table two cats are nestled together: a Carthusian, and a long-haired red cat; from under the sofa, a black cat observes him with his round, big yellow eyes.

"These are Tuman and Ogon, and the timid one under the sofa is Noch."

"They are original names." Boris smiles and then places the bottle of vodka on the table.

"Oh. Ah, thank you..." Valery mumbles, as if he was surprised that someone thought of bringing him a present.

Even in this reality, he isn’t a social animal.

"Keep an eye on the bottle while I take the glasses," Valery continues, "Ogon has the habit of throwing everything she sees off the table, and Tuman does everything she does."

"You could get the cats off the table."

"I've tried it a few times, but it's useless: I'm afraid they’re the real owners of this apartment."

Valery pours two glasses of vodka, then places the bottle safely on the kitchen counter.

Boris moves to an armchair, the only one not littered with papers, and leans towards the black cat, letting him sniff his fingers.

"Hello, Noch."

"I took him a few months ago: I found him during a thunderstorm, under a car, and I felt sorry for him. But Tuman and Ogon have never taken a liking to him," explains Valery, while he rummages around the living room looking for the lighter, "I have to lock him in the bathroom to make him eat, because otherwise they attack him, and if I pet him, the other two become very jealous and then they fight."

While Valery speaks, Boris looks at Noch and pat a hand on his thigh; cautiously, the cat comes out from under the sofa, approaching Boris. He sniffs his shoes, rubs himself on them, then, with a silent leap, is on his lap.

"He doesn’t have a happy life here," Valery continues, "I tried to convince some neighbour to take him, but he is so shy that no one wants to..."

Valery turns around and stares flabbergasted at the sight of his black cat, blissfully curled up on Boris's lap, purring.

"It's the first time I hear him purr at a stranger," Valery whispers incredulously.

"There is a first time for everything. Where is Khomyuk?"

"At the post office: she’s waiting for some stuff Dmitri sent her. In the meantime I'm doing calculations and simulations."

"And...?"

"And we need to be patient, Boris," Valery explains with a small smile of apology, "science never has immediate answers."

Noch has since fallen asleep.

"I'm sorry," Valery murmurs, embarrassed, "now your suit is full of cat hair. Give him to me."

"Absolutely not," says Boris, raising an arm to stop him, "I have no intention of waking him up, I bet the other two cats don’t let him sleep in peace."

"Yes, you’re right."

And so they stay there: Valery smokes one cigarette after another, as he quickly writes on a notebook and explains what he’s doing, and Boris sips vodka with a hand resting on Noch, his eyes on Valery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scientists know how to be exasperating, right Boris?
> 
> If Google Translator behaved well, Valery's cats names are Fog, Fire and Night.


	6. 6

Boris doesn’t stay idle: he’s determined to find out why Valery's memoranda written in the past years never arrived on his desk. 

Each soviet bureau is like a pyramid: minor decisions are taken at the lowest level of it, or at local level, and sometimes it happens that also intel stops a few levels above, without reaching the top of the pyramid.

A few days later he identifies the culprit: an employee named Grigory, who has given a superficial reading to Valery's various recommendations, probably understanding one word out of ten of what was written, and stored them in the basement of the palace, without thinking twice about it.

Boris gives him such a vehement tongue-lashing that Grigory will remember it for the rest of his life, then fires him on the spot, and goes to the archives in search of the documents.

The basement is dark and damp, with walls covered in mold that, in some cases, has also attacked the binders and the boxes that have been lying there for the longest time.

"I won't die of radiation but of mold infection," he grumbles, starting to look.

Those in charge of the archive have at least had the good sense to divide the documents by topic and, after a couple of hours, he finds what he’s looking for: in a box thrown on the ground in the corner there are the three memoranda written by Valery over the years.

But then he finds much more than what he is looking for: on the bottom of that box there is a thin folder, eaten by mold. On the cover someone wrote: _"Leningrad nuclear power station, November, 28th, 1975."_

The quasi-precedent of Chernobyl.

He leafs through it, without understanding much, but he notes that it’s somehow incomplete. It doesn’t matter, though, it’s still an important finding, because it will help Valery and Khomyuk to go in the right direction with their investigations.

He must thank the complex Soviet bureaucracy, and its obsession with having copies on copies of every documents for that discovery.

The KGB has secreted the Leningrad accident and its agents believe to hold the only copy of the report in its archives, but one has escaped, stuck somewhere halfway in the pyramid.

Boris looks around cautiously and hides the Leningrad file inside the lining of his jacket, then leaves the basement, showing the archivist only the folder with Valery's memoranda.

The man, who heard about the lecture given to Grigory by the irascible Ukrainian before him, doesn’t open the folder and doesn’t ask questions, he just writes down diligently the operation on the register.

Boris is about to leave the building to go to Valery's apartment, when Tanya stops him to sign some documents.

"Do you know the ants we were talking about, comrade Shcherbina?"

"Yes?"

"You should check out Professor Legasov's building, there seems to have been an infestation."

Charkov started to move.

He will move, too.

He writes a short coded note and gives it to Tanya.

Valery is still alone at home. Noch sits on Boris' lap as soon as he sits down in the armchair, while the other two cats observe them from the top of the bookcase.

"Khomyuk prefers to work in her hotel room," explains the scientist, still struggling with his calculations, "she says she gets too distracted here."

"Oh, I wonder why," Boris bursts out in a sarcastic tone, stroking the glossy fur of the black cat: the chaos has increased exponentially since the last time he was there.

"Hm. However I have to tell you Boris, I did several simulations and so far nothing leads me to think that an RMBK reactor could explode. But I will try again," he adds, noting that Boris opened his mouth to object, "I know that the work of this commission is important to you, and it’s the same for me, you have to believe me; this could be the most important work of my life: for years I talked about security without anyone listening to me."

"Thank you, Valery. Meanwhile I found these."

He bends over to take his briefcase and Noch, annoyed, jumps down from his knees.

Boris hands the memoranda to Valery, who immediately recognizes them.

"Did you read them?"

"Yes, but I'll be brutally sincere with you: I didn’t understand anything, they seem written in an alien language and not in Russian."

"Scientific language is technical, of course it’s complicated," Valery snorts, almost offended.

"Yes, but these memoranda weren’t for your colleagues, they were aimed at people who barely know what a nuclear reactor is. Have you thought about it?" Boris insists, starting to get heated, "perhaps, if they had been written in a more understandable language, they would have arrived on my desk."

Valery looks at the yellowed and damp stained paper.

"Where were they, instead?"

"In an archive in the basement."

Valery clenches his fists angrily: "So is it how politics works? Is it all based on an uninformed, arbitrary decision made by some apparatchik? Some career Party man? I mph..."

Boris had forgotten how hostile Valery was to politics, and registers his words with a certain delay; furthermore he didn’t expect to hear the exact words spoken by Valery in his timeline and is momentarily destabilized, then he jumps up and pounces on him, pressing a hand over Valery’s mouth and crushing him on the sofa.

Fortunately for them, Valery's cats choose that precise moment to start a huge fight and their loud meows are strong enough to cover Valery's voice.

"You seem a bit tense, comrade," Boris hisses, "now you and I are going for a walk."

Valery, who still has his mouth silenced, shakes his head, refusing, so Boris leans over him until their noses touch. "Now," Boris insists in a whisper.

The unexpected contact instantly tames Valery, who relaxes and nods.

Valery's idealism is what makes him pure, but sometimes he needs to be brought back down to earth, needs someone to remind him that they don't live in the world of dreams, but in a real and extraordinarily imperfect world, or sooner or later Valery’s mouth will get him into trouble, even in this timeline.

Boris stands up, clenching the hand that was pressed against Valery's mouth; where it came in contact with his lips, the skin burns as if it had been touched by radioactive graphite, but that isn’t the time to think about it.

"Your cats are real demons. Look at this, they have thrown everything down."

By fighting and rolling around, the cats hit and knocked down a lamp and accidentally tore the microphone installed by the KGB.

"Great job," Boris whispers to Tuman, scratching him behind his ear.

When they leave the building, Boris whispers quickly: "Do you see those two men sitting in the black Lada Riva parked down the street?"

"Yes," Valery stares at it intently and Boris rolls his eyes, dragging him away by the arm.

"Not like that!"

"But you told me to watch them!"

"Not in a so obvious way."

"Well, what's wrong with that car?"

He's so naive that Boris doesn't know whether to choke him or kiss him. In the end he does nothing, because both actions would cause him several problems; he lets his arm go, but they keep walking close.

Valery lights up a cigarette and breaks the silence after a while.

"Where are we going?"

Boris doesn’t answer. "How old are you?" he asks instead.

"Fifty, why?"

"I read your file: at your age, with your skills and your experience you should be the director of the Institute."

"I'm the first deputy director."

"You have been in the same position for several years by now. Vorobyev, Fedulenko, Velikhov... they all made careers faster than you. Have you ever wondered why?"

Valery grumbles again, purses his lips and doesn't answer, then glances quickly at Boris, perhaps fearing he has angered him, but he’s surprised when he sees Boris smile, to the point that he stumbles.

"Once, someone told me that science can't accept compromises, otherwise it stops being science," Boris mutters, looking ahead. Valery can’t know that it was he, in another time, who pronounced those words. "You’re the same."

"What would you like, an apology?" His pugnacious scowl tells Boris he won't have it.

"No, a cigarette."

"You don't smoke."

Now Boris is really close to strangle him. "Does it cost you so much to indulge me for once? Just for once!"

Valery stops, takes a cigarette from the packet and hands it to Boris, who leans over to have it light up. Valery almost starts as Boris bends closer to him, perhaps expecting him to take the lighter and do it himself.

"Look to your right, but don't let yourself be noticed," whispers Boris.

Valery obeys and his eyes widen: at some distance from them, there are the two men who were in the black Lada. One pretends to look at a grocery store window, the other looks at the clock as if he were waiting for someone.

Boris inhales a mouthful of smoke and starts walking again.

"Stop looking now, or they will notice."

"Who-who are they?"

"KGB: there are microphones in your apartment and certainly also in Ulana’s hotel room and in my office in the Kremlin."

"Why?" Valery blurts, outraged.

"Because that's how it works."

"What about your apartment? Isn’t it bugged?"

"I’m a deputy chairman of the Council of Ministers," replies Boris, puffing his chest out, "Charkov knows that there are limits he can’t exceed."

"Is that why you shut me up, before?"

Boris puts out his cigarette and throws it diligently into a waste bin. "I’m by your side Valery, but you must realize that you haven’t many other allies."

Valery stumbles again and Boris slows his pace, so he doesn't have to run after him.

"Looks like I owe you a thank you and an apology," Valery mutters.

"I thought you didn't apologize for what you think."

"Indeed it is, but I apologize for having called you a career party man."

"I’m a career party man."

Now it’s Valery who looks at Boris as if he were a naive idiot.

"No, you're not, you're not like them at all."

"Then what would I be?"

"A good man."

Boris closes his eyes for a moment, trying not to show how much Valery's words affect him.

_"A good man.”_

What Valery told him on that bench.

His only solace, after his death.

"Are you okay?" Valery asks, a little puzzled by his silence.

Boris only nods: he's still not sure his voice isn't shaking.

Walking, they reached one of the bridges over the Moskva, and Boris points to a public telephone, now calmer.

"Call Khomyuk and tell her to join us here."

They lean against the balustrade to look at the river as they wait for her, talking about their lives again, and the two agents wait quite far away.

Ulana arrives by taxi; a look at her face is enough for Boris to understand that the Belarusian woman is angry.

"What is it?" He asks her, starting to walk slowly again.

"I'm doing research at the Moscow university library, but some of the documents I asked for, inexplicably, are always lent to someone else."

Boris purses his lips: even if there is still no accident to hide and play down, the State does everything it can to hide its secrets.

It will die of secrets in the end.

"I'll take care of it, now I have something to show you."

"Then we could meet at my hotel room."

"We can't," Valery whispers to her, lowering his voice, "they’re spying on us."

"Do you know it now? Legasov, we are spied upon from the moment we are born," Ulana replies, unimpressed.

They walk along the riverfront; the KGB agents are still far away and they are on foot.

"Get in that parked green Trabant, doors are open," Boris hisses, speeding up the pace.

In a moment they left, leaving behind the agents.

"Isn't it worse, like that?" Valery asks anxiously.

"No: they let themselves be fooled like rookies: they won't go to report it to Charkov, they'll come back to wait for you under your building."

Boris drives around for a while, to make sure he isn’t followed, then he heads for Gorky Park; the arbors in front of the Andreevsky ponds are empty and sheltered from prying eyes, and finally he can show Valery and Ulana the report of the Leningrad accident.

The two scientists are very focused, while Boris stands, looking around, but the situation is calm.

Ulana is the first to notice something unusual.

"Have you have read? It says that the operator pressed the AZ-5 button and the power peaked momentarily."

Even Valery straightens up, struck by that particular.

"It shouldn't happen," he mutters, then looks up at Boris. "The AZ-5 button immediately lowers all the safety bars, blocking the reaction."

Boris would like to tell him, _I know, you explained it to me,_ instead he asks: "And why did the power go up?" hoping to direct him on the right path.

Valery goes back to studying the file, but then he shakes his head: "I don't know yet. A colleague of mine, Volkov, investigated the accident, but I don't see his report here."

"Yes, this file is incomplete, some pages are missing and others can’t be read due to the mold," adds Ulana.

"Where is Volkov now? Can he talk to us?” Boris asks. He wouldn't want to involve other people, but if it’s necessary, he will.

"No, he died a few years ago."

Boris sighs, putting his hands on his hips. Dammit.

Valery takes off his glasses and cleans them in his tie.

"We need to rebuild the missing parts of this file."

"To do this I need to consult those documents in the library," exclaims Ulana, clearly frustrated by the obstacles she’s encountering.

"I'll see what I can do about it," Boris promises.

"Comrade Khomyuk, do you know anyone in Leningrad?" Valery asks.

"I know people everywhere, even at the Kurchatov Institute."

"Oh..." Valery blinks, surprised, "well, that’s good. You have to go to Leningrad, and question the operators who worked in the plant during the accident."

"Why me?"

"Because I talked to your director, comrade Khomyuk, and he told me that you’re brutally stubborn, which I was hoping for," Valery replies, putting on his glasses again.

"This is a quality, but be also prudent and discreet," Boris chimes in, “if you were arrested, it wouldn't be so easy for me to get you out."

"I know how the world goes, comrade Shcherbina."

"A-arrested?" Valery stammers, "why should they arrest you? You’re conducting an investigation on the behalf of a government commission."

"For the same reason we're talking here and not at your place," Ulana sighs, then looks at Boris: they may not like each other, but at least they live on the same planet.

"I go back to my hotel to pack," Ulana says, getting up and smoothing her skirt; passing next to Boris, she whispers: "Keep an eye on him, okay?"

"There is no need for you to tell me."

"No, probably not," the woman adds with a smile, and Boris decides not to ask her what she means.

Boris takes Valery home. As expected, the two KGB agents are still there and they’re quite relieved to see them: they will avoid a lecture by Charkov, or worse.

Valery gives them an anxious look as he climbs the steps.

"Just pretend they don't exist," Boris suggests.

Valery laughs nervously: "It's not that easy. You may be used to spies and secrets, but I’m not."

"Don't worry: I won't let anything happen to you," Boris says, with all the solemnity he is capable of.

Valery snorts a laugh, then bites his lower lip, embarrassed.

"You make me feel like a damsel in distress."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to debase your masculinity."

Valery shakes his head and doesn't seem offended: "No, no, I didn't care for that... it's that... it's kind of you to worry about me... people don't do it for me... and... well..."

"You’re welcome. Goodnight Valery," Boris interrupts him very tactfully, avoiding him to die of embarrassment in front of his house.

"Good night, Boris."

Boris walks away, so he can't see Valery going up in his apartment.

Valery throws himself on the couch with a whiny sigh and, when Ogon joins him and puts a paw on his chin, meowing, he pets her head and murmurs: "Your owner is an idiot."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Grigory, sometimes life's hard, and doing a sloppy job when Boris Shcherbina is your boss, is not a smart move.


	7. 7

The rain is pouring over Moscow.

Boris and Valery, protected by their umbrellas, are among the few people who are challenging the infamous weather. Officially they are only two comrades who are going to buy cigarettes, but actually it's their way of talking freely away from the KGB's ears.

As the days went by, it became a habit for them to walk the streets of the city. For a while Valery updates him on the progress of the investigation, but more and more often they find themselves talking about their bachelor lives.

Valery is the same brilliant but terribly lonely man that Boris has known and loved in his old timeline, and it takes time for Valery to start to open up with him and to tell something about himself; his personality, blunt and not always amiable, and some stabs in the back from his colleagues have caused him to shut himself off.

If he doesn't let anyone come close to him, nobody can hurt him, this is his philosophy of life.

Boris never forces him to talk, he says something about himself when he sees that Valery doesn't want to talk, and listens to him carefully when he opens up.

With the increased confidence, their speeches are also more light and playful: Valery reveals to have a brilliant sense of humor, which was completely unknown to Boris, but it’s true that in Pripyat they had no reason to laugh. Instead, now there isn’t that impending sense of doom which, in Boris's old reality, tinged everything with melancholy, even their moments together.

But today Valery seems pensive.

"Any problem with your studies?"

"No, no, I'm focusing on the hypothesis of the RMBK reactors running at low power, and I think I'm on the right track."

 _"You are,"_ Boris would like to tell him, _"you're almost there."_

He was sure that Valery and Khomyuk would reach the same conclusions, also in this timeline. Science is ruthless, but rarely fails. 

But right now he's more worried about Valery's serious face.

"Then what is it?"

"I thought of Volkov, after you showed me that file," Valery sighs, his voice barely audible over the din of the pouring rain, "after the Leningrad accident I hardly heard of him anymore. He retired to private life and didn't want to meet anyone, not even his closest friends. Was it because of them?"

"There had been an accident in a State whose main objective is not to disfigure. Whatever Volkov wrote in his report went in another direction."

"So they exiled him... without formally exiling him? How?"

"Was Volkov married?"

"Yes, he had a wife and children... ah, now I understand, a threat." Valery looks at him and there is already resignation in his eyes, "but Boris, you know the way we are heading to: you put this commission together because you had suspicions about the safety of the reactors."

They arrive at a small tobacco shop. Valery buys cigarettes and a newspaper, and they start talking again only when they are far away from it.

"The circumstances are different now, there is no accident to cover up or the reputation of the State to preserve," explains Boris, "but even if there will be consequences, you don’t need to worry: if necessary, I will omit your name from the final report and I will take the political responsibility of what you write on myself."

Valery is taken aback: "But… that would put you in the same position of Volkov."

"I know." 

Boris used the time-travel machine built by Paulie because he was desperate and sorrowful, and he wanted the chance to have more time with Valery, the rest of their lives, possibly; but if it isn't possible, then he has already decided that he will protect Valery from Charkov and Gorbachev at any cost.

"This time I'll take the bullet," he says proudly.

In his old timeline, during his countless sleepless nights, Boris often wondered if he could have done more for Valery after the trial, maybe be braver, and openly challenge Charkov instead of staying obediently in his place. 

He’s aware that it wouldn’t have changed anything: the State would have crushed him under its boot as it did with Valery; yet sometimes Boris is under the impression he had simply watched what happened, torpid and helpless, while Valery sacrificed himself in the name of the truth, and he knows he will bring this regret within himself forever, even if now he is in another reality.

But he will ensure that it doesn’t happen again.

Valery frowns: "This time?"

Boris gasps: he must pay more attention, he can’t betray himself like this. He shrugs, dropping the conversation.

Valery walks silently by his side for a while, then Boris sees him shake his head under the umbrella.

"No!" Valery exclaims, stopping suddenly.

"No what?" Boris asks, stopping in turn.

"I will not let you do it alone."

"Valery..."

"Tell me, why did you want me in this commission? That morning, when you called the Institute, I wasn’t there, but there were other colleagues, as much qualified as me, to choose. Anyone could do what I do."

"What is it, Velikhov complained that he wasn’t chosen?"

"Velikhov continues to complain about it every day."

"That's why I didn't choose him."

"Boris, I'm serious."

"I chose you because you are trustworthy, because you are fifty years old and you’re still a deputy director, because between a career advancement and the truth you will always choose the latter, and because you aren’t willing to abdicate your morals, even if it would put you in trouble."

 _"And because I'm a old fool who loves you,"_ Boris adds in his head.

Valery raises his chin, almost defiantly, and stares at him with his intense blue eyes: "Then you know I can't let you take the political weight of what we’re doing on your shoulders: you got me involved, I feel this responsibility as mine, and we'll be together in this until the end."

Boris opens his mouth to protest, but Valery stops him: "Don't say anything else, it's useless. You don't know how stubborn I can be."

"Actually I know," Boris replies, hoping to hide the mournful note in his voice.

"You know, it's strange: every now and then I have the impression that you have known me for a long time..."

A car darting across the road drives through a puddle and splashes cold water over Boris, who turns and yells at the driver.

"Oh dear, you’re soaked. Wait..." Valery takes the handkerchief from his pocket, then realizes how useless his gesture is: Boris's trousers are dripping.

"It doesn't matter, I'll dry them when I get home."

"Your building is far away, you will take a cold, soaked like this: I have an electric heater at home, it will help drying your trousers."

Boris is about to argue that he was at war, some water doesn’t frighten him, but he doesn’t mind spending some more time with Valery.

"Thank you."

The apartment is increasingly cluttered with papers and notes, and Boris carefully moves them away from the heater before switching it on and extending his legs in front of it.

The heat is pleasant.

"I'll get you a towel," Valery says, disappearing into the bathroom, "so you can dry off most of the water."

"Thank you."

Noch comes running from the corridor, pursued by Ogon, and jumps in his lap as soon as he sees Boris. The red cat hisses threateningly, but doesn’t dare approach Boris, who rests his hands on the black cat's back in a protective gesture.

That red fury won't touch him, as long as he's there.

Piqued, Ogon climbs onto the sofa and throws down a small notebook with a leather cover, which opens up. Boris picks it up, with the only intention of putting it back in place, but then his eyes fall on the open page: it’s a view of the Red Square under the snow, drawn in colored inks. In the lower right corner is signed V.A.L..

"Ah!" Valery returns from the bathroom and drops the towel to the floor when he sees what Boris is holding. Boris picks it up and dries his trousers with one hand, while with the other he turns over the pages of the sketch pad.

"Are they your drawings?"

"It's just my little hobby."

"You’re talented."

"Thank you." Valery extends his hand, expecting Boris to give the sketch pad back to him, but instead Boris starts flipping through it from the beginning, so Valery can only sit on the edge of the sofa, glancing nervously at him.

"Have you been drawing for a long time?"

"Since I was at the university. Is it such a strange thing?” He asks, unable to decipher Boris' intent expression as he looks at Valery’s colorful ink drawings.

"No, it's just that I imagined that you wrote poems in your spare time."

"Poems?" Valery blinks and shakes his head, "no, I'm not good with words."

"You're a professor, of course you're good with words."

"That is science, poetry is something else, I would never be able to write anything decent."

Boris thinks he's wrong. He also thinks that, even if this is a different timeline, Valery’s delicate soul is always the same, only that here he expresses himself with colours and shapes, not with words, but some of his drawings are very poetic.

He's still his Valera, always his Valera.

Valery extends his hand again to get the notebook, more and more nervous, and this attracts Boris' attention.

"What?"

"Give it back, it's not worth looking at my drawings: they are just doodles."

But Boris thinks that he’s not telling the truth: Valery is too embarrassed and he’s blushing. Maybe he drew something he doesn't want Boris to see? A smirk makes its way over Boris’ face.

"You’re a lame liar, let me tell you."

"It's the truth!" Valery insists, swallowing noisily.

"What secrets are you hiding, comrade Legasov?" Boris jokes, extremely amused by his discomfort.

"It's just that I don't understand why you're so interested in my drawings, it's just something I do in my spare time when I’ve nothing better to do, I draw the things I see, without thinking too much, there is no particular hidden meaning..."

The more Valery speaks, the more he betrays himself, like a man who fumbles and sinks more and more in quicksand. 

Pitiless, Boris leafs one page after another: the Kremlin, a bench in a park, the Moskva, a fountain, a vase of flowers, his cats, drawn several times, sleeping, sitting, lying on their backs, and…

Oh.

A medium close-up portrait of Boris, very realistic, but gently forgiving with his flaws and his age.

"It-it doesn’t mean anything, really... I..." Valery keeps on babbling, lowering his eyes to stare at the tip of his shoes, and now it isn’t difficult to catch the note of panic in his breathless voice: he is afraid that Boris gets angry, misunderstood, or judge him strange; and the last thing Boris wants is for Valery to be afraid of him.

Boris looks up from the drawing, closes the notebook and put it gently on Valery's lap.

"It means that you have the soul of an artist, Valera."

The use of the affectionate diminutive leaves Valery completely stunned: he raises his head abruptly, his lips parted in a small ‘o’ of awe, meeting Boris's calm and reassuring gaze.

 _"It's all right,"_ Boris tells him silently, with a little smile, _"I'm not angry."_

Valery's hands settle on the notebook, touching Boris's fingers, and...

-CRASH-

"Ogon!" Valery jumps up to scold his cat, that climbed on the table and threw the glass ashtray to the ground, smashing it.

The cat moves only a few steps away, looks at Boris narrowing her yellow eyes, then sits down, lifts her hind leg and licks her butt.

If it weren’t that Boris knows for sure that animals aren’t rational creatures, he would think that that hellish red cat is making fun of him.

The moment is lost (if there has been a moment and he isn’t imagining things that don’t exist), so Boris moves Noch on the sofa and gets up.

"My trousers are quite dry now, I'm leaving."

Valery is kneeling on the floor to pick up shards of glass and cigarette butts, embarrassed and uncomfortable; he merely nods without looking at him and murmurs a goodbye.

For a moment Boris wishes he could lift him and kiss him senseless, but he controls himself and leaves the apartment: he doesn’t want to create distractions to Valery, because the work he’s doing is too important.

Besides, he doesn’t even want to force himself on Valery or manipulate him to make him fall in love.

It wouldn't be fair, and it wouldn't be genuine.

In the timeline Boris comes from, they fell in love, but there’s no guarantees that it will happen also here; the circumstances are completely different. Now there isn’t the same desperation, the sense of an impending end, the awareness of being only the two of them fighting against the system, which made them cling to one another like castaways in the storm.

If here Valery wants them to be just friends, Boris will accept it.

He will accept anything, as long as Valery is alive and safe.

In his apartment, Valery has given up the cleaning for now and sits on the floor, with his back against a wall, smoking a cigarette and letting the ash fall to the floor.

He has again acted like an awkward mess, but sometimes he can’t control himself when he’s around Boris: his strong and magnetic personality confuses him, and the familiarity towards him makes him feel strange emotions.

It could become a problem.

If it isn't already.

Tuman rubs himself against his legs.

"If nothing else, he liked my drawings," he murmurs as he pets the cat, without even realizing that he’s smiling.

Ulana returns from Leningrad safe and sound, but with less information than she hoped: the accident was classified as minor, the local population wasn’t even informed, even if the release of radiation into the atmosphere was significant, and the workers who went to work to the plant after 1975, weren’t even informed about it.

"And guess what, those documents I want to see at the library aren’t yet available," she exclaims, looking at Boris with her arms folded, as if it were his fault.

They are in a building under construction, having escaped once again the surveillance of the KGB.

"Do you really need it?" Boris asks, turning to Valery.

The scientist shrugs, as if to apologize: "There are technical specifications that we absolutely must know."

"Tell me exactly what you need, I'll take those documents."

"What makes you think they'll give them to you?"

"I didn't say they'll give them to me, I said I'll take them."

His idea is to enter the library at night and photocopy the documents Valery and Ulana need.

"I come with you," Ulana says calmly, "you wouldn't know what to look for on your own."

Since the woman is right, Boris decides to ignore the fact that she just said he’s dumb.

"Can you leave the hotel without being followed?"

"Of course."

"Okay then."

"Well, I'm coming too," Valery says, but Boris shakes his head: "Valery, you stumble while you're standing still."

"It's not true!"

"There is no need for you to come: the more we are, the more we’re at risk of being discovered."

"But..."

"I’m in charge here!" Boris bursts out sharply, "and I have decided that you aren’t coming."

"There are those calculations to finish, comrade..." Ulana offers with diplomacy, and Valery lowers his head, defeated.

"If you are two against one..."

Ulana and Boris wait in his car, in a dark alley behind the library.

They will enter after midnight because, Boris explained, there’s only one guardian, and at midnight he moves to watch some adjacent buildings and doesn’t return to the library until morning.

While they wait, Boris feels the woman's clever eyes upon him; it’s unnerving, but he doesn’t say anything, so in the end it’s Ulana who breaks the silence.

"You hide something, comrade Shcherbina."

Boris is still silent.

"This whole commission thing, your fears... it's almost like you know that something will happen."

"Like Rasputin?" Boris laughs, trying to ridicule her, "can't I have had an intuition?"

"No," Ulana replies dryly, "not about nuclear energy: you can't have intuitions about something so complex."

"Then tell me, comrade, what would be my evil and sordid secret ends? Let's hear!” He growls, hoping to scare her, but Ulana doesn't flinch.

"I've thought about this for a long time, but I've concluded that you don't have any: what you’re doing will not harm anyone, if anything it will be the opposite. That's why I'm here," she smiles, "and forgive me if I worried you, but the oddity has whetted my curiosity. You can keep your secrets, as long as they don’t hurt anyone."

"I never admitted having secrets."

"Comrade, we’re in the Soviet Union: even newborns have secrets."

Boris looks at his watch: he can’t wait to go in, at least the woman's questions will stop.

"It's cold tonight: I envy Legasov, warm and safe at home," Ulana continues, but Boris doesn't take the bait.

"You were really against making him come with us."

"It's risky."

"Oh, I can risk my life and he can't?"

"Valery is... naive, candid even. With him here, the guardian would have discovered us even if we stayed in the car, and you know it. But you are smart, comrade Khomyuk," Boris offers her a compliment, seeing that trying to intimidate her is useless.

"You're right," she replies, but her smile tells Boris another thing: _"Alright, I'll pretend to believe you, but we both know you did it just to protect him."_

Boris takes a flashlight and the lock pick from the glove compartment and opens the door.

"It's time, let's go."

There's no need to turn on a copy machine: Ulana rewrites the documents she needs methodically and quickly, the pen flowing and filling one sheet after another in the dim light of the torch, while Boris checks that nobody comes.

"I'm done," she whispers after a few hours, "now we have all the data we need."


	8. 8

The cabinet meeting is almost over, and its members are about to leave.

"Just a moment, if I may, comrade general secretary," Charkov says in a mellifluous voice, lifting one hand in a lazy way, then he shifts his eyes on Boris.

Boris holds his gaze and remains perfectly still, but his heart is pounding in his chest: did he and Ulana be incautious in the library? Were they discovered somehow?

"Of course," Gorbachev encourages him.

"Well, I was wondering how the work of comrade Shcherbina's small commission was going: after all, he is keeping two renowned members of the Academy of Sciences busy, and they have surely neglected other works because of this."

"Oh, it's true," Gorbachev exclaims, as if he had just remembered about Boris’ commission (it’s probably true), and looks at Boris in turn.

"I can assure you that the work of the commission proceeds smoothly, and you will receive a report as soon as possible."

"In the interests of the State and the organization of its work, I believe that this commission can’t work indefinitely, we should put a end date to it," Charkov insists.

What a coward! Since he hasn’t found anything compromising, he is now looking for another way to hinder Boris’ commission.

Gorbachev nods: "Yes, I agree: the commission will have to produce the final report by March 15th, then it will be disbanded. Any objections, comrade Shcherbina?"

"Not at all."

Vladimir Pikalov, sitting in front of him, almost opens his mouth to speak, but then he thinks twice, and the men are dismissed. GRU and KGB aren’t in good terms, but Pikalov has always been a clever man and knows that raising objections now wouldn’t lead to anything good.

Boris meets him a few hours later in a nearby café, where the general is having a coffee. He sits on the stool next to him, and beckons the bartender to bring one for him too.

"Boris."

"Vladimir."

"I wanted to say something before."

"No, you did the right thing, remaining silent: when the general secretary decides, it’s decided."

"It's ridiculous, comrade, your commission is doing something useful, but it's as if Charkov wanted to see it fail," he whispers, bringing the cup to his lips.

"It's not something that is under his control, so it bothers him. However, I trust that Legasov and Khomyuk will do it in time."

And if they don't make it, Boris has a plan B ready: he is willing to tell them the truth, that he knows the flaw of the RMBK reactors and that there will be an accident, at the cost of coming off as a lunatic, just like Paulie, and being locked up in an asylum for the rest of his life. 

Anything, to avoid Chernobyl.

After all, it would be a marginal sacrifice, in the grand scheme of things.

"I still think our comrade should worry about other problems," Pikalov blurts out, placing a few rubles on the counter to pay for the coffees.

"You're right, he should."

Boris' tone of voice makes Pikalov to turn his head. He looks at Boris for a moment, then resumes sipping his coffee with a slight smile: something tells him that soon the KGB will have something to worry about. Charkov is a powerful man and is feared by everyone, but this time he miscalculated, going against that Ukrainian bull.

A few days later, the Pravda received a juicy anonymous letter, containing information and photos about the unseemly behaviour of some members of the Soviet Embassy in London, surprised during a party with call girls and drugs.

The news has a remarkable resonance, even abroad, especially when the men involved in the scandal leave the embassy and run away.

An urgent meeting of the central committee is called right away.

Boris doesn’t participate, because his bureau isn’t involved, and he has only a minor and marginal role in the committee, but he runs into Gorbachev in the corridors of the palace in the late afternoon: the man seems to be prey to a severe headache or stomach ache. Or both, probably.

"A word, Mikhail Sergeevic. How bad is it?” He asked, showing to be diligently concerned for the interest of the State.

A part of his mind is aware that the old Shcherbina would have been worried for real, he would have been a faithful and dull servant of Soviet socialism until his death, never questioning the decisions of the State or their consequences.

But this happened before Chernobyl, before they took away his Valera. Now everything is different, he just wants Charkov to be as far away as possible from Valery.

"The British newspapers are laughing at us, Boris Evdokimovich."

"It’s a disgrace, a real disgrace for our image," Boris sighs in a regretful voice, shaking his head, "if only the embassy staff had been controlled better... we know that the vices of the Western world are a strong temptation for anyone."

"Charkov's men are limited, they can’t control everyone."

Boris buries his hands in his trouser pockets and looks out the window.

"I understand that very well, but perhaps the distribution of their tasks could be better."

"What do you mean?"

Boris shrugs: "I’m not the head of the KGB, and I would never criticize the job of a comrade, but at the moment there are five men who are watching me, Professor Legasov and Ulana Khomyuk night and day, when the two scientists are just doing calculations and writing a report. I don't know, to me it seems an excessive precaution towards two righteous scholars with an immaculate file. But as I said, it's not up to me to decide."

The next day the black Lada Riva parked outside Valery's home has disappeared.

Boris jerks awake because someone is knocking at his door like a madman. An annoyed look at the alarm clock tells him that it's four in the morning.

He throws the dressing gown over his shoulders and goes to open: it's Valery. They haven't seen each other for a few days, the two scientists have been locked in Valery’s apartment, completing their studies with the new information.

Valery is sweating, breathless as if he had run a marathon, and his hair is stuck to his forehead in untidy locks.

"Valery... did you walk here from your house?" Boris asks incredulously.

"Yes."

"But it's chilometers away."

"I had to see you and talk to you," Valery staggers in the living room and begins to walk nervously in circles, his eyes wild: Boris has never seen him so agitated.

"My god, Boris..."

Boris grabs him by the arms, frightened, fearing that the KGB has done something to him.

"Valera, what happened?"

"You were right, an RMBK reactor can explode! And now I know how!"

"Can you prove it?"

"Yes, yes! This kind of reactor, when running at low power, is notoriously unstable and subject to fluctuations in reactivity. If by mistake it stalls, the control rods are lifted to regain power. The rods are made of boron, but their tip is made of graphite, and if the AZ-5 button is pressed, dropping down all the rods, the reaction is accelerated and there’s a peak of power. Then the core would explode! It would be a catastrophe! Entire regions, perhaps the whole Europe would be contaminated by radiation! It can't happen."

Valery is almost screaming and Boris doubts that the neighbours like that noise, so he tries to calm him, massaging his shoulders.

"I know, Valery."

"No Boris, you have no idea what would happen! My god, we lived for years sitting on an active volcano, which we fed with omissions and lies. It’s a miracle that no reactor has exploded yet."

"I know, I understand," Boris repeats. He's there for that, to keep it from happening, and he will, even if he can't say it.

However Valery still doesn’t calm down and clings to his dressing gown with all his strength.

"You must call a meeting immediately!"

"At this time of the night they wouldn’t be well disposed towards you, believe me."

"But they must know, Boris! We must warn the directors of the plants, involve the nuclear physicists of all the institutes and elaborate new safety protocols!"

"And we will do it, I promise, but now take a deep breath and calm down, before the neighbours call the police because of the disturbance," Boris murmurs with the most reassuring voice he can gather, entering Valery's personal space, up to feel his breath on the face.

It works: the scientist resurface from his panicked trance, and looks around.

"Sorry, sorry," he swallows and take some deep breaths, "did I wake up anyone?"

"Valery, I live alone, have you forgotten?"

"You could have a girlfriend," he replies, defensively.

"No, there isn’t anyone but me."

"Oh. Oh good."

"What? A potential mistress shouldn’t be disturbed, while I can be thrown out of bed in the middle of the night?" Boris jokes, but Valery doesn’t register his words, and wobbles slightly.

Boris frowns: "Valery, how long have you gone without sleeping?"

"I don't know, what day is it today?"

"Thursday."

"Then since yesterday, I think."

"Do you think?" Boris blurts out, bewildered.

"All of a sudden I knew I was on the right track and I couldn't stop, so I kept working until I came to the truth."

"Did you at least eat something in the meantime?"

"Not that I remember."

And now he is paying the consequences of his recklessness, his body reached its limit and when Valery stumbles again, almost falls to the floor; Boris has support him with his strong arms.

"Dammit Valery, you have to take better care of yourself."

"Boris, the reactors..."

"I said we'll take care of it, but now you have to rest."

"No, no, I don’t need to..." he mutters, but his head collapses on Boris's chest, "uh... to be honest, I don't feel well..."

"Of course, you haven't slept or eat for more than a day, and you came here running, it’s a miracle you didn't collapse in the middle of the street," Boris growls, dragging him into his bedroom. He takes off his glasses, jacket and shoes, and Valery is already fast asleep.

_ This happened often also in his old timeline, when they were at Chernobyl: Valery worked tirelessly, even twelve hours a day, until he collapsed, and Boris drove him back to the hotel, carrying him, then he undressed him and tucked his blankets. Sometimes he stayed longer, if Valery had nightmares, ending up falling asleep next to him. _

_ The first few times it happened, the morning after Valery was seriously mortified. _

_ "You don't have to worry about me," he told him one day, while lying in bed, "you already have so much to think about, I don't want to be a burden to you." _

_ "Valera," Boris replied, shifting a lock of hair from his forehead to kiss him there, "here you are the only thing that’s not a burden to me. And I can't help but worry about you, even if you ask me not to." _

_ "Then I'll slow down a little bit," he promised, "for the sake of both of us." _

_ But he never did, he gave all of himself to the end. _

"You never change, Valera," Boris murmurs, looking at him from the bedroom door, then he closes it and lets him rest.

He sits in the armchair, a smile that cautiously makes its way onto his face: they’re on the right track now, they only need to write the final report, and then everyone will be safe.

He dozes off, waking up only late in the morning, because of the cries of his neighbours' baby.

Silently, he opens the bedroom door: Valery is still asleep; he has turned over on his stomach, spread out like a starfish, and he is drooling open-mouthed on his pillow.

He occupied all the available space, as he did with Boris’ life, since the first moment they met.

Boris kneels beside the bed and raises his hand: he feels a strong desire to touch his hair and place his lips on his. Valery’s sleep is so deep that he wouldn't notice, but it wouldn't be fair.

Eventually he shakes him slightly by the shoulder, but Valery just frowns and buries his face more in the pillow.

"Valerka," Boris laughs, shaking him a little harder, "it's morning."

"Mrgh..." Valery opens his eyes, blinks slowly, registering that he is in a bedroom that’s not his, and lifts himself up on his elbows, looking at Boris, still deeply confused. "Hn?"

The temptation to kiss him is almost insuppressible.

"Good morning," Boris says, an amused light dancing in his eyes.

Just then Valery seems to recall the events of the last hours, and he literally jumps off the bed, stumbling over the sheets twisted around his legs.

"I'm sorry! God, I’m sorry for the trouble I gave you, and for having coming here in the middle of the night."

"It's not a problem, I'm used to wake up early. The bathroom is the front door. What do you drink for breakfast, tea or coffee?"

"Tea, thank you," he murmurs, before disappearing into the bathroom.

Just the time to close the door behind him and he collapses on the tiled floor, covering his face with his hands: Boris undressed him and made him sleep in his bed, on his pillow. 

He can still smell Boris’ scent around him, and it’s enough to make him half hard.

"Oh no, don't even think about it, not now! I couldn’t look at him anymore," he hisses in the direction of his groin, then he look at the cold water tap in the shower and sighs unhappily, but apparently there is no other solution to tame his flustered cock.

When Valery joins Boris in the living room, cold but calmer, he’s speechless in front of the the amount of food he put on the table: black bread, eggs, cheese, butter, fruit preservers, sour cream, kolbasa, and a teapot of strong black tea.

"This is not a breakfast, it's a lunch!"

"Sit down: you will not leave this apartment before you eat something," Boris threatens him with a teaspoon.

"Thank you."

Boris watches him eat as he sips his barley and chicory coffee: Valery's skin has a healthy complexion. He will stay healthy, he will not lose his hair within two years, he will not be depressed and sick to the point of deciding to...

"Do I have stains anywhere?" Valery asks, noticing Boris's gaze on him, and frantically wipes his shirt with a napkin.

"No, you’re fine," Boris looks away and spreads the butter on his slice of bread.

Valery won't die, and that's all that matters.

The commission's final report will be ready in time, but the day Valery tells Boris, he doesn't look happy about it.

"What?" Boris barks. Valery has the irritating ability to find the negative side in every situation.

Valery shrugs: "To tell the truth, the best way to increase the safety would be to stop building cheap nuclear power plants and reactors, and start building them like in the West. Oh, and also stop covering up accidents. I wanted to just write this in my report, it would be the most sensible thing to say, and I think that the men in the Kremlin should hear this and finally open their eyes."

Boris covers his eyes with one hand.

"Valery..."

"Well, it’s the truth, but I'm not that naive to shout it from the rooftops," he sighs with a bitter smile.

"Are you sure?"

"I know that we can only improve our reactors someway. Even I can tell that there’s a border line between truth and utopia. So we will tell the truth about the reactors we have in the Soviet Union, because after all they are a real problem, and we will forget the utopia of Western reactors... why are you looking at me like that?

"Are you really the idealist scientist I know?"

Valery lowers his eyes and smiles: "I fear that by being close to you, I got a little infected by your pragmatism."

Before presenting the final report to Gorbachev, Boris goes to Valery's to read it, and he points up to the two academics everything that’s not clear to him: it’s a lot.

"You have to simplify the language."

Ulana is annoyed, but Valery agrees with Boris: "Comrade Khomyuk, if the committee doesn’t understand what we have written, if we are unable to explain the defect of the RMBK reactors in clear and simple terms, they’ll not listen to us and probably will do nothing about it."

"But this means rewriting half of the report!"

"If necessary, it will be done," Valery insists.

"As you wish, but you will do it. In the meantime I will write what would be the consequences of radiation on the population and the environment."

"Yes, it's a good idea."

"See you tomorrow."

"What made you change your mind?" Boris asks when Ulana has left.

"About what?"

"About the language to use."

"Working with you."

"Working with a stupid, do you mean?"

Boris has always suffered of a remarkable inferiority complex in front of Valery and his intelligence, or in front of anyone who has studied more than him. It’s inevitable, they make him feel inadequate.

Valery lets the pen fall to the floor, and Tuman immediately plays with it; for an instant it almost seems like Valery wants to take his hands, but then he squeezes the cushions of the sofa.

"You're not stupid, Boris."

"In front of your PhD, I am."

Valery shakes his head: "It's the opposite, if anything: spending time with you made me feel stupid, and arrogant too. Working for years at the Institute, spending more time in the laboratory than at home, doing experiments after experiments, made me lose sight of the real goal of science, which is to be at the service of people's lives. If science folds on itself, unaware of the world outside, then it becomes useless."

Ogon gets on the sofa, waving his thick red tail in Valery's face.

"Ah, someone here is hungry. I should still have some boiled fish."

Valery picks her up and opens the fridge.

"That cat is more spoiled than a queen," Boris grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.

Valery strokes her head and Ogon closes her eyes, purring: "You're right, but she's been with me for ten years now, and she's my favourite."

"Are all your cats stray, even Tuman?"

"Yes, all those I've had in my life. When I found Ogon, both her mother and her siblings had freeze to death, and she too was very weak. It’s true that she developed a strong attachment to me and is very jealous, but I believe she is just afraid of being alone again," says Valery, as he puts Ogon on the floor, and puts the plate with food in front of her.

"I can't blame her then," Boris says, standing up, "being left alone is horrible."

The memory of his previous life and the loneliness he endured after the trial and the death of Valery suddenly crashes on him, making his voice weak and strangled.

"Boris?" Valery looks at him, worried, "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, yes. Have a good evening, Valery."

"Ah... thanks... ...you too!" He stammers when the door is closed and Boris can't hear him anymore.

He hangs his head low and sighs.

Tuman gets on the table and looks at him sternly with his intense orange eyes.

"I am a mess, I already know it, there is no need to beat a dead horse," he mumbles, lighting a cigarette.

He is happy that the KGB is no longer listening him: talking aloud with his cats doesn’t exactly give off a good impression.

Meanwhile, Boris has reached his car, but before starting up the engine, he closes his eyes and sighs, mentally berating himself: he has more self-control than that. They are also close to their goal, he must stays focused on it, he can’t be affected by emotions.

But sometimes it’s too much even for a strong man like him.

Boris is happy to have met Valery again, even in a different reality, he is over the moon because they are friends here too, but a corner of his mind, no, of his heart, will forever belong to the Valery of his old timeline, the man he loved with an intensity that he didn't believe possible, at his age.

It's inevitable, but he feels that’s right like that.

He will never forget him, but he is ready to look ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GRU is the Military Intelligence and yes, it had a longstanding rivality with KGB.
> 
> In the Soviet Union, real coffee was a luxury that very few people could afford, so it was often replaced by a drink made with roasted barley and chicory.  
> Not just in the Soviet Union, actually. In the 80s it was a luxury also in other parts of Europe. My father's family had only roasted chicory coffee (they were farmers from a poor region), and my father tasted the real coffee only when he emigrated to the north.


	9. 9

A few days before the meeting at the Kremlin to present the final report of the Shcherbina commission, the miners in the Kuzbas region riot because of their wretched working conditions. 

It’s exactly what Gorbachev fears most, so Boris is pretty sure that he will be willing to listen to suggestions about alternative energy sources to coal.

It almost seems as if the fate wants to help him this time, or to apologize for the pain he and Valery suffered in his old timeline.

It’s just right, Boris thinks, closing the newspaper, the universe owes them this.

Boris doesn’t believe in God, but if God existed and Boris met him, he would have no fear in telling him, _ "we went through hell in Chernobyl, we felt every decision made, every person sent to die, like a burden on our consciences, and Valery gave his life so that the truth wouldn’t be covered up. Because of that, now you owe us the chance to be happy, deal with it." _

And if God wanted to deny them this opportunity, then he should be afraid of the reaction of Boris Evdokimovich Shcherbina.

At the Kremlin, Boris is sitting on the sofa outside the meeting room, and waits.

He closes his eyes for a moment: it's time.

He bet everything on this to change the destiny, it's his only chance, and it has to work.

"Boris..."

Valery and Ulana have arrived; the woman is perfectly at ease, and radiates confidence, while Valery is the usual lump of anxiety.

He is wearing a blue suit, the same one he had the first time Bors saw him, and his tie is hopelessly crooked.

"Valerka," Boris exclaims with benevolent exasperation, "fix your tie."

"Ah... yes..." he stutters, straightening it.

"Nervous?"

"A little, it's not exactly like talking to a group of students."

"Relax, you will be fine," Boris reassures him. He won't let anything go wrong for Valery.

"Ah, Professor Legasov, it's a pleasure to meet you in person."

Charkov reaches the trio and scans Valery with interest. Boris stands up and has to refrain himself from physically coming between them.

Valery gives him a questioning look, and Boris makes the introductions.

"Valery, this is the first deputy chairman of the KGB, comrade Charkov."

Valery doesn’t smile and his words are anything but affable.

"Oh, then it’s useless for me to introduce myself, since you already know everything about me, right?" he spits in his usual undiplomatic tone.

Boris closes his eyes briefly and sighs: hoping that Valery learns to restrain his tongue is a lost cause. Even Ulana is baffled.

"It’s nothing personal, comrade, it’s only my work, and I carry it out in the best interests of the State."

"Do you think our interest is different? Then you..." Valery starts, more and more pugnacious.

"Valery!" Boris stops him by grabbing him by the arm, ready to drag him away: dammit, didn’t he realize that Charkov is provoking him?

Ulana coughs quietly and Charkov's gaze moves over her.

"Where are my manners? Welcome, comrade Khomyuk: I believe that for you it’s the first time at the Kremlin. What do you think?"

"I’m genuinely impressed."

"I can imagine: nothing like this exists in Minsk, I hope it doesn't make you feel too uncomfortable."

And now he offends Ulana by implying she’s a country-dweller; Valery jumps forward, perhaps to defend her honor, but Boris squeezes his arm and pulls him back. It doesn't matter if he leaves bruises, he must prevent him from ending up in a KGB prison for having insulted Charkov (no matter that the chairman would deserve it).

Meanwhile, Ulana smiles politely, without falling into the trap: "It’s very kind of you to worry, but I’m fine."

Then they are called in, and the meeting begins.

As it happened during the trial that was held in Chernobyl, it’s Boris who illustrates how a nuclear reactor works, which most men in the room ignore, and then Valery begins to explain, in the simplest way he can, the circumstances that can lead to an RMBK reactor to explode, answering to everyone's doubts, and concludes by saying that, if the Soviet Union wants to rely more on nuclear energy, the defect must be eliminated.

Finally Ulana illustrates the scenarios that would occur in the event of an accident, insisting on the damage to the population. Boris feared she would be cold and detached, but he had forgotten that Ulana is a mother, and she speaks like a mother about the consequences that children in particular would suffer.

At the end of the presentation, Boris can say that the audience is very impressed, but then Shadov took the floor.

"It's very interesting, comrades, but we're only talking about theories, nothing solid. I mean, we haven't had any accidents, so far."

At his side, Charkov nods.

Ah, that snake managed to find an ally: Shadov was already against his commission, and for Charkov was easy to take him to his side.

Valery shakes his head, as if to say that he can't believe the nonsense he has just heard, and opens his mouth to reply, but Boris precedes him: he had promised, this time he will take the bullet.

"To be honest, there have been several accidents over the years, but since they were classified as minor, they never came to the attention of the central committee."

"Because the committee is very busy," Shadov insists, "we can’t expect it to deal with any minor trouble: the staff of the plants have always solved every problem."

This time it’s Valery who precedes Boris, and he can’t do anything to stop him: “Well, so far. But in 1975 in Leningrad there was almost a serious accident: the reactor experienced a peak of power when the AZ-5 button was pressed. And do you want to know how likely an accident is to happen? Every time a safety test is performed, for example, because the reactor runs at low speed."

When Valery names Leningrad, Charkov lifts his head from his copy of the report, and narrows his eyes at Legasov; he shifts his gaze first to Ulana, then to Boris, and he smiles enigmatically to him.

Boris swallows and clenches his fists: shit! He should have been the one to talk about Leningrad, not Valery.

Meanwhile, Gorbachev gesticulates with his hands, shocked: "But a safety test should prevent problems, not be a danger itself."

Valery leans to him: "I know, it's a contradiction, but if you look at page 20 of the report, it says exactly how it can happen," and then he explains why one more time, showing a unusual patience.

"We understand," the Minister of the Economy chimes in, "but the solutions proposed in this report are expensive."

Valery takes a deep breath, and Boris knows that he’s is about to show off his total lack of diplomacy, but this time it’s Khomyuk who is speaking: "Undoubtedly. But managing the consequences of a disaster would be much more expensive. And I’m not talking only in term of money, but also in term of human lives: all the people employed in an potential liquidation would be at risk of tumors and leukemia, and a nuclear catastrophe doesn’t end in a few days like a fire or a flood, its consequences last for decades."

"If I may, comrade general secretary," Pikalov says, "years at the head of my division have taught me that comrade Khomyuk is right: prevention is always better than intervening after a disaster. It’s not always possible to put a remedy to hat happened, therefore I support the solutions proposed by this commission."

He nods politely to Gorbachev, and then his gaze quickly meets Boris'.

He has to get him a box of the finest vodka for his birthday.

"But still, the changes on the reactors will take years," Shadov insists, "to me it seems like an unnecessary waste of time and money."

"We will draw up a plan for that," Boris replies, "but in the meantime we must limit the risk factors, inform the directors of the nuclear power plants about this problem, and modify the operational protocols. With extreme discretion, of course."

Gorbachev closes the report and nods: "It’s reasonable: do that, Boris Evdokimovich. Thank you all for the excellent work you have done. So, if there is nothing else to discuss..."

"Just a moment, comrade general secretary," Charkov opens his mouth for the first time since the meeting began. "I'm afraid there's a problem."

Boris narrows his eyes: it was too good to hope that Charkov let it go: it's a matter of pride for him.

Gorbachev was about to get up, but he sits again: "Sure, let's hear."

"Professor Legasov, you mentioned an accident occurred at the Leningrad nuclear power plant. Where did you get that information?"

"Ah, well..." Valery stutters, clearly troubled, "a colleague of mine, comrade Volkov, was called to investigate the accident, so I..."

"But we took charge of his report, as well as of other documents relating to the accident, and they are only found in the KGB archives," Charkov interrupts him, "so explain to me, Professor, how did you learn about certain details and confidential documents?"

"Professor Legasov?" Gorbachev urges.

A icy silence falls. Charkov wants to discredit Legasov, insinuating into the men in the room the doubt that he has somehow stolen that information from the KGB, and he is therefore a person unworthy of trust.

Or worse.

Valery wheezes, but before he can open his mouth, Boris puts his hand on his knee under the table, and squeezes it tight, silencing him.

"Comrade Charkov is wrong," Boris says, "the file of the Leningrad accident that comrades Legasov and Khomyuk used during their investigation doesn’t come from the KGB archive, where it’s impossible to enter without permission, but from the archive of this one building. I was the one who found it and gave it to them."

"I… I don't think that a copy of the document is here," Charkov insists, but his voice is less sure now.

"The Kremlin archives are huge, I myself was surprised when the file came into my hands by chance."

"In this case, comrade Shcherbina, you stole that file from the archive illegitimately and without reporting it to the archivist."

Now he is the object of Charkov's attention: exactly what Boris wanted, to divert that attention from Valery.

"Is that the case, Boris Evdokimovich?" Gorbachev asks, rather puzzled by the turn the meeting has taken.

"Not exactly. I regret having to say it, but the State archive is not very tidy: the Leningrad file ended up, due to someone's mistake or distraction, among Professor Legasov's memoranda, which I was looking for. I regularly reported to the archivist that I took the memoranda, but I realized that there was something else in the folder only when I got home."

"But then you didn’t correct the omission, informing the archive, and you used confidential information: this could have damaged the image of the State, not to mention that information on nuclear energy is a crucial state secret. Your behaviour was reckless, as well as not transparent and correct, comrade Shcherbina, and you know how much our general secretary cares about transparency in politics."

Charkov's voice remains calm, but his anger is obvious. Valery, sitting at his side, doesn’t stop fretting, clasping his hands spasmodically, while everyone's eyes are on Boris.

The situation is really tense, because Boris has disregarded the rigid Soviet bureaucratic protocols; more powerful men than him got into trouble for much less. Of course, common sense is on his side, but it may not be enough.

"Comrade Shcherbina, I would like to hear an explanation," Gorbachev says. His voice has become wary.

"Regarding the omission, I didn't think it was important, my commission used several books and documents to draft the report, the Leningrad file is just one of many. But I wouldn’t have used it, if it had been confidential as comrade Charkov says. There was simply no indication that it was."

That said, Boris opens his briefcase and pulls out the moldy and yellowed file, handing it to Gorbachev, who takes it in his hand with some reluctance.

"In any case, if you think that mistakes have been made," Boris continues, "the responsibility is mine and mine alone, comrades Legasov and Khomyuk simply followed my guidelines, and they used that document because I gave it to them, but they didn't know anything about its origin."

Valery gasps, looking at him with wide eyes, while Gorbachev read the file carefully, checking the various notes, but in the end he spreads his hands.

"Comrade Charkov, I must agree with Boris Evdokimovich: in this file, it’s not written anywhere that it’s confidential material and, given its bad shape, I would have used it myself without asking too many questions. To tell the truth, it amazes me that he didn't mistake it for scrap paper."

"General secretary..." Charkov complains, but Gorbachev stops him raising a hand.

"Comrade Shcherbina made a honest mistake, which I’m sure he will not repeat, but it seems to me that you are making a mountain out of a molehill. The way this file was found doesn’t invalidate the commission's conclusions."

Gorbachev’s words have a decisively inflection, and Charkov understands that it’s useless to push further: his position has become more precarious after the embassy scandal, and antagonizing the general secretary wouldn’t bring him anything good, so he tightens his lips and nods.

Fooled by the system that is so dear to him: exactly what he deserves, according to Boris.

"Very well, I would say that's all: Professor Legasov, gather your colleagues together and expose this report to them, looking for solutions: I expect some results as soon as possible."

"Of course, general secretary," Valery replies with a polite nod.

The meeting is over. Shadov and Charkov leave the room immediately, while other men stay and talk: Pikalov asks Khomyuk some clarification regarding the effect of radiation, and Valery silently collects his papers.

Boris breathes a sigh of relief and turns to him, ready to celebrate, to give him a playful pat on the back, to hug him even, but the scientist is gloomy, and doesn’t seem to share his joy.

"What?"

"Forgive me, comrade," Valery says in a cold voice, "but you heard what the general secretary said: there is still a lot of work to do, I have to go back to the Kurchatov Institute."

He goes around him and leaves the room hastily, but Boris, as the stubborn Ukrainian he is, follows him.

"Valery!"

Legasov shows no signs of wanting to halt.

"Valera..."

This works. Valery stops, but doesn't turn around.

"Improvements will be made to the reactors, everyone will be informed of the dangers, we won, so what's wrong? Care to explain it to me?"

Valery whirls around and Boris gasps: he saw him sad, disheartened, desperate, resolute, but never angry as he is right now.

His blue eyes are like the stormy sea.

"In the end, you did what you want, and took the responsibility for that information, alone. In that room you risked your career, god, maybe your own life, and you said that I had nothing to do with it."

"I simply told the truth: I found the file and gave it to you. Weren't you the one who always want to say the truth? Have you changed your mind now?"

"Don’t turn the tables: you promised me! You promised that we would do it together, that we would share every aspect of this work, political responsibilities included. You found that file, but I used it!" Valery raises his voice in the last place on earth where he should do it, because, really, he never learns.

And Boris will never give up protecting him.

"I’m sorry that this point isn’t clear to you, comrade, but I’m in charge of the commission, and you are a subordinate, therefore these decisions and responsibilities are entirely on me. End of discussion." Boris raises his voice too, to make that concept clear, in case anyone is listening.

Valery lowers his eyes, anger dissipating in a blink, giving way to disappointment.

"I thought we were friends," he whispers, and then leaves.

Boris lets him go: it’s true, he has broken the promise he made to him, but he has already seen Valery offer himself as a sacrificial lamb on the altar of the truth, he has already seen his life and his dignity torn apart by the State, and he would never relive that.

To Boris there is nothing more important than protecting Valery.

An angry but alive Valery is always better than a Valery in the hands of the KGB, erased from history, who puts an end to his life by tightening a rope around his neck.

Boris can stand anger.

As long as Valery is fine, he can endure anything.

A couple of weeks go by, and Boris receives a call.

"Comrade Shcherbina, it's me, Khomyuk."

The woman's tone of voice is serious and betrays tiredness.

"Is something wrong with the development of the new protocols?" Boris asks immediately.

"No, from that point of view everything proceeds smootly."

"Then what is it?"

"Why did you never come to the Kurchatov Institute to attend our meetings? You're still the head of the commission."

"To do what? Now you are discussing technical details, you don't need me. You will send me the new protocols when they are ready, and I will sign them."

"Oh no, you're wrong," the woman sighs, "you're indispensable."

"Why?"

"Our mutual friend is unmanageable: he’s ill-tempered, angry, he fights with everyone, so now nobody wants to work with him, including me. At today meeting there we will be people from Sredmash and Minenergo, and if they would report to someone about his attitude..."

Boris closes his eyes and sighs: how can Valery be so intelligent and yet so stupid at the same time?

"And why do you think I can do something about his attitude?"

"Now you’re joking, right? You're the only one he listens to, and don't tell me you didn't notice, because I don't believe you. So," Khomyuk urges him, "put aside your sense of inadequacy or whatever reason you have to pout, and come here."

The woman hangs up without giving him the time to reply.

When Valery crosses the corridor, people avoid him, giving him worried glances, and try to hide somewhere.

Legasov closes the door of his office, sits down at his desk, and takes off his glasses, sighing.

He needs to take a long hard look at himself in the mirror: he’s acting like an asshole with everyone (well, more than usual), venting his frustration on them for the way he talked to Boris.

Thinking about it with a cool head, he understood why Boris acted that way: he wanted to protect him from political schemes and from the KGB, and he reacted by getting angry like a fool, ending up to drive away the man who, in a few months, had become a dear friend to him.

Much more than a friend in the secrecy of his heart.

He hides his face in his hands: he misses Boris terribly, he misses their walks, talking to him, seeing him sitting in an armchair with Noch sleeping on his lap.

_ "There has never been someone like Boris in your life and you fucked up everything, you idiot. You deserve to be alone for the rest of your life." _

Someone knocks on his door, but Valery doesn't answer, continuing to bask in his despair.

"Valera..." whispers a gravelly and deep voice, and Valery jerks his head up.

"Boris!"

Valery is glowing, he doesn't seem angry with him anymore.

"Here, I came to check how the new protocols are being processed."

"I... ah... I'm sorry for what I told you at the Kremlin!" Valery exclaims jumping up; in doing so, he knocks over the chair, and Boris can’t help but chuckle. He loves his clumsiness.

"It's alright, Valery."

"No, it’s not," Valery shakes his head as he straightens his chair, "I was aggressive for no reason, while you defended me from the KGB. I should have thanked you, not reacting like an asshole. I’m sorry."

"Apologies accepted."

"So, are we still friends?" He asks, raising two hopeful eyes on him, and how could Boris tell him no?

"If that's what you want, Valera."

Valery jumps forward and, for a moment, Boris thinks he will hug him, but then he stops, murmuring "thank you", while scratching his neck, embarrassed. He opens a cabinet and moves some books, taking a bottle of vodka and two glasses.

"To friendship, then."

"To friendship," Boris agrees, toasting.

They are at their second glass when the secretary tells Valery that their colleagues are ready for the meeting.

"Well, I'll leave you to your work."

"No, stay," Valery begs, taking him by the arm.

"Valery, it's pointless, I wouldn't understand a word."

"Together, remember? After the meeting I will explain you everything we have said."

Valery’s hand is still on his arm, and his deep ocean blue eyes are pleading, so Boris gives up and stays.

Valery is calm and collected, and doesn't argue with anyone that day.

While sitting in the meeting room, Boris does his best to avoid Ulana's gaze, because he already knows what he would read in it:  _ "See? I told you." _

The new protocols are drafted, approved and distributed with discretion to the directors of the nuclear power plants across the Soviet Union. In particular, the defect of the reactors is disclosed, and it’s recommended, pending the replacement of the control rods, not to run the reactors at low power, if possible, and to be extremely cautious to avoid to stall the reactor.

And finally Boris can relax: it’s done, now that the information is known, the catastrophic concatenation of causes that led to the Chernobyl accident has been blocked.

Gorbachev calls his commission and some nuclear physicists working at the Kurchatov Institute for a brief official ceremony on April 25th.

The date seems particularly fitting to Boris.

"Don't expect much," Boris tells Valery and Ulana that afternoon, "a handshake, maybe a watch."

Valery hides a laugh behind a cough, but Boris is right: Gorbachev receives them quickly in the afternoon, between one appointment and another.

However, for the nuclear physicists it’s still a great honor.

After the ceremony, the group scatters around.

"Well, comrades," Ulana says, "it has been a pleasure to work with you, but now I have to go back to Minsk."

"Are you afraid that the institute will not work without you?" Boris jokes.

"I trust Dmitri enough. Rather, I’m afraid of what I will find at my house," she shakes her head, "I left a husband and two teenage sons alone."

She stands on tiptoe to exchange a chaste socialist kiss with Boris, and then a longer, almost open-mouthed one, with Valery.

Boris stiffens and holds a possessive growl in the back of his throat.

When she lets Valery go, Ulana gives him a sly glance, and Boris realizes that that woman has understood perfectly his feelings for Valery, perhaps from day one, and she’s teasing him.

The possessiveness turns into apprehension, but it lasts only a second, because Ulana lets her hands slip away from Valery’s shoulders and smiles at them.

"Come on, go drink and smoke cigars, or whatever you men do to celebrate."

And with that strange blessing, she leaves.

"It's not a bad suggestion," Boris offers, "do you want a glass of vodka before you go home?"

"Yes, willingly."

They sit in Boris's office; he asks Tatyana not to be disturbed, but after a few minutes, the woman calls him.

"Forgive me comrade, but I have Danylo Litvak on the phone, and he insists on talking to you."

Litvak is a member of his bureau, from Kiev detachment, as well as a good friend and a sensible man: if he insists on speaking to him, then it’s important.

"Danja, you old bear, how are you doing?" Boris roars, still in a good mood.

"Better than you, you bull. I know you're busy, but I think you should know that."

"Tell me everything."

"It’s about the new protocols for the nuclear power plants. They came to my office and obviously I read them before distributing them."

Boris feels an unpleasant tingling at his nape, and straightens up in the chair. "Any problems?"

"I have read that all safety tests are suspended until further notice. The fact is that some time ago the director of the Chernobyl plant had asked to do one; of course, with the new protocols, the request was rejected, but..."

"But what, Danylo?" Boris asks, clutching the receiver so hard that his knuckles turn white. Even Valery feels his tension and leans towards him, so he can listen to the conversation.

"I have just checked the data on the energy flow and we are experiencing a significant decrease in the last hours. If you want my opinion, they are carrying out that test: it wouldn’t be the first time they do it their own way at Chernobyl."

It’s not possible.

It can't happen.

Not even here.

"Shit..." he wheezes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For god's sake, comrade Dyatlov, I left you alone for only nine chapter, what the hell are you doing?  
> (Means: sorry for the ugly cliffhanger)


	10. 10

"Boris... Boris... Boris!"

It takes a few seconds to Boris to register that Valery is shaking him by the shoulders.

He has never felt so scared; he opens and closes his mouth, but no sound comes out.

"Boris, you're scaring me. Are you feeling sick?”

"Chernobyl," he wheezes, "they are doing a safety test."

"What? But we said to block them!"

"I know!" Boris takes his head in his hands: he knew that the certificate of the construction of reactor 4 was incomplete, but he was sure that Bryukhanov and Fomin would stick to the new protocols. Instead, apparently they are ready to do anything to hide their incompetence.

"Call and tell them to stop!"

"It's useless, they would deny everything and they would lie to save themselves. I know them, I already know how it will end."

Boris closes his eyes, trying to block the panic. Valery's hands are still resting on his shoulders, anchoring him to reality.

There is no other solution: he must go there in person and physically stop them. Shoot them, if they still won't listen to him.

"I must go to Chernobyl."

It's almost 6:00 p.m., he hopes he is still in time.

He picks up the phone and calls General Pikalov.

"Vladimir, I need an huge favor: I want a helicopter, now! I have to go to the Chernobyl nuclear power plant."

He leaves his office running, heart in his throat, and doesn’t notice Valery trotting behind him until he’s on the runway.

"Where do you think you're going?" He shouts, to make himself heard above the noise of the rotor.

"I'm coming with you."

"Oh no, you’re not."

"Why?"

"Because it's dangerous."

"All the more reason to come with you."

Boris puts a hand on his chest to push him away, but Valery puts up a surprising resistance and doesn’t move an inch.

"Go home, dammit!" he yells.

"No! If they are really carrying out a test or have other problems, what will you do once there? You never set foot in a nuclear power plant." Valery knows he is right, and this is what gives him strength.

Boris growls in frustration: he hates when Valery uses the logic to convince him.

"I don't know yet, but..."

"That's why I'm coming with you."

"Valery..."

"You have to get me shot to keep me from getting on that helicopter," he yells back.

"Comrades," Pikalov has kept his distance until then, reluctant to interrupt the tense confrontation between the two men, but now he speaks: "if we want to leave, we must do it now."

Valery walks towards the helicopter and Boris can only lower his head and follow him, growling a ferocious expletive.

"It doesn't end there," he threatens, fastening his seatbelt.

"When we return to Moscow, you will report me for insubordination or something," Valery replies, sitting in front of him, "but this time I won't let you do it alone."

Boris closes his eyes and clenches his fists.

Pikalov gets up and goes to talk to the pilot, and Valery takes advantage of the fact that they are alone to place a hand on his.

"Why don't you want me to come with you?"

"If anything happens to you, I would never forgive myself." Boris opens his eyes, knowing that he won't be able to hide his despair.

_ "You don’t know Valery, but it has already happened, I have already seen you sick because of radiation, sentenced to death, and I couldn’t bear to see it happen again." _

"Boris..." Valery tries to comfort him by patting the back of his hands, "don’t worry, everything will be fine: we'll find out what they're doing and, if there is a danger, we'll stop them."

Pikalov returns to sit down, and Valery quickly withdraws his hand in his lap.

"Comrade Shcherbina, there is a problem."

Boris is about to scream and smash something.

"We can't get to the Chernobyl power plant by helicopter, because it will be too dark by then, and this helicopter is not equipped to fly at night. We can only go to Mazyr."

"Why?"

"Because we could hit some high voltage cables and fall."

Boris curses again, pouring all his frustration in the crude words, while Valery turns to the general: "Do we have alternatives?"

"We'll have to get there by car."

"Have the fastest one ready," Boris orders.

"Already done. In the meantime, can you explain to me what's going on? Tomorrow I will have to justify this trip to my superiors."

_ "If there will be a tomorrow," _ thinks Boris, gloomy.

Seeing that Boris is still shaken, it’s Valery who talks to the general.

"Boris... er... comrade Shcherbina has learned that they are conducting a safety test at Chernobyl right now."

"I thought the tests were suspended."

"Yes, indeed, that's why we're going there."

Pikalov is baffled: "Are they out of their minds? Don't they know what they risk, disregarding Moscow directives?"

"It's because they lied in the past, and now they try to cover that lie with other lies," Boris sighs, then explains: "Bryukhanov certified that the construction of reactor 4 was complete, but a safety test was still missing."

It's his fault! He should have foreseen it, thinking of every possible scenario, but he didn't, and now the disaster is going to happen again.

The lies will kill them even this time.

Pikalov goes back to the pilot, ordering him to fly as fast as possible, and Valery takes Boris' hands again, holding them in his.

"It will be fine," he repeats, and Boris doesn’t understand how he can be so calm.

"You can't know."

"Yes, I do. We are together, we will make it: you will yell at the staff of the plant, I will remedy the mistakes they are making."

He almost makes him smile.

"I drive!" Boris barks, as soon as they get off the helicopter, and no one dares to contradict him.

He drives at the maximum speed that the car can reach: he doesn't care if the engine or the tires will melt, they have to hurry, there's almost no time left.

Valery, sitting beside him, squeezes the dashboard frantically, pale as a sheet, terrified by his reckless driving.

"Boris..." he whines in a weak voice, "remember that we must get there alive."

"Soon there will be a shift change at the plant, and the actual test will be conducted by people who know nothing about it." 

Boris hopes that Valery and Pikalov don't ask questions about why he knows so many details, he wouldn't know what to answer now.

"But..." Valery rests his hands on his knees and quickly moves his lips, his brow furrowed, doing calculations in his mind, "if they have already reduced the power of the reactor, a huge amount of xenon has formed, and if the night shift doesn’t know it, they will end up stalling the reactor. Oh!” He too starts to see what could happen.

He jerks his head up and looks at Boris: "Go faster!"

Boris pushes down on the gas pedal.

At the gates of the power plant, they encounter another obstacle, because the security guard doesn’t want to let them pass, and she puts her hand to the butt of her gun, despite having noticed the pin that Boris has on his jacket.

"I'll take care of it," Pikalov whispers, before stepping forward. In front of the General's uniform, the woman is more reasonable.

"We are here because we have been informed that the director of the plant is disregarding the protocols developed by the commission represented by comrades Shcherbina and Legasov."

"I haven't been informed of anything, I can't get you to the plant, it's a security issue."

"Comrade, Bryukhanov is putting everyone's safety at risk right now. I can make a phone call and take control of the plant, my position allows it, but I would like to avoid wasting more time, and having to write a report about who hindered me."

The guard thinks about it for a moment longer, then steps aside to let them pass.

"But I come with you."

"Alright. Indeed, you will be useful."

"Where is the control room of reactor 4?" Valery asks, tormenting his hands.

"Follow me."

Boris opens the door and all the people in the control room turn to look at them in surprise.

"Who the hell are you?" Dyatlov asks, pushing aside Stolyarchuk, with whom he was arguing. He looks down at them, annoyed, as if some insects had just entered his control room.

"I’m Boris Shcherbina, deputy chairman of the council of ministers and head of the bureau for fuels and energy. I order you to suspend any activity you’re carrying out."

The engineers look at each other, baffled, but no one interrupts what he is doing.

"What nonsense," Dyatlov snorts.

"We can’t stop now," Proskuryakov says, "we have a safety test is in progress."

"That's exactly why you have to stop!" Boris roars.

"I wasn’t told that Moscow would send someone for an inspection, and anyway you can't stay here," Dyatlov continues, then turns to the guard, "Take them out of my control room, they can talk to Bryukhanov, if they want."

"Maybe you didn't understand who I am, comrade."

"I don't care: you can't come here and lay down the law! Get out of my plant," Dyatlov replies.

"I'm not going anywhere," Boris growls, getting closer to him and challenging him with his eyes to contradict him again, and this time Dyatlov keeps his mouth shut. It’s the first sensible action that Boris has seen him perform since he entered the room.

Meanwhile, Valery is at one of the workstation and speaks at length with Kirschenbaum, then turns to Boris.

"It's like I thought: the reactor has stalled: it has been running at low power for several hours and has been poisoned by xenon."

"If it happened, the fault is of these two idiots," Dyatlov points his finger at Akimov and Toptunov; the two men look at each other, and the younger boy pales: it’s clear that they knew nothing about it, they have just begun their shift.

To Boris, watching with his own eyes the chain of errors and thoughtlessness that led to the explosion of the reactor is disconcerting, as well as absolutely terrifying: it's like living a nightmare from which you can't wake up.

"This safety test violates the new protocols you have received, as well as the most elementary rules dictated by common sense. Are you sure you have a degree?" Valery comes forward, until he’s next to Boris.

Dyatlov maintains an impassive face, but hesitates a moment before answering.

"We haven’t received any new protocols. As I said, talk to the director, or to comrade Fomin."

Boris is shocked by the ease with which he lies and denies the facts even to himself.

The words that Valery spoke during the trial come back to him:  _ "we lie and lie, until we can no longer tell apart the lies from the truth." _

"This is a lie! You have received the new protocols at the beginning of the month, like all the other nuclear power plants and, if it’s not clear to you, comrade, they weren’t suggestions, but orders," Valery scoffs.

"I know nothing about any protocols," Dyatlov insists.

"What is it, were you in the loo while they were read?" Boris growls.

"In any case, I only obey the orders of my direct superiors, comrades Bryukhanov and Fomin, and this test continues."

"Oh, I don't think so," Valery replies, "you have already done a series of unforgivable mistakes with a disconcerting superficiality, we will not allow you to continue."

Valery and Dyatlov continue to discuss technicalities aloud, while Boris physically positions himself in front of the console operated by Akimov and Toptunov, and challenges them to come closer.

Akimov moves in front of him and lowers his voice to a whisper: "Deputy chairman Shcherbina, the protocols are a bureaucratic matter, but we have to work here, and if we don't follow orders, Comrade Dyatlov can make our lives extremely difficult. A negative note on our record could have us fired."

"And a mistake would lead to your death!"

Why is it so difficult to understand?

"It's just a test, there have been others in the past on the other reactors, and nothing happened, I don't understand why..."

"Because now the conditions are different."

"Sasha, I think we should listen to Professor Legasov," Toptunov whispers, touching his arm with his fingertips. The boy is still pale, he seems about to vomit or faint, if only he tried to get up from his chair. "This test... I don't know if we are able to… and we've already skipped steps..."

"What are you idiots waiting for?" Dyatlov shouts, "you stalled the reactor, raise the control rods to restore power."

"NO!" Valery and Boris shout in unison.

Boris is aware that, by doing that, they give off the impression of being crazy, but they are really on the brink of a catastrophe.

"If there is an accumulation of xenon in the reactor, the increasing reactivity will burn it," Dyatlov says, as if he were talking to two children, "there is no reason to act like a pair of lunatics."

"Right now the reactor is completely unbalanced, if you raise the control rods, the reactivity will rise and rise and will not stop," Valery shouts.

"We have an emergency button for that."

"I know, the AZ-5 button, which would immediately lower all the control rods, whose tip however isn't in boron, but in graphite, therefore there will be an uncontrollable peak in reactivity."

Dyatlov looks at Valery without understanding, while Toptunov becomes even paler.

"Oh…"

At this point Valery turns to him.

"You begin to understand, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Leonid, what...?" Akimov asks, and Toptunov grips his arm harder: "Sasha, we're in grave danger," he whispers.

Dyatlov shakes his head and turns to the security guard one last time.

"See that? These two men are infecting my workers with their hysteric madness, get them out of here!"

However, the woman has no intention of disobeying General Pikalov's orders and shakes her head.

"Vladimir, please escort comrade Dyatlov to the office and call the director: we will find out later why no one is aware of the new protocols," Boris orders.

The General approaches Dyatlov, pointing to the door.

"A shift chief must always be in the control room, it's a matter of safety," he complains.

"Is there anyone else who can come?" Boris asks.

"Yes, the chief of the day shift, comrade Sitnikov," Stolyarchuk answers.

"You call him now, I want him here as soon as possible!"

Stolyarchuk approaches the phone, but Dyatlov blocks his way.

"This is insubordination."

"Comrade Dyatlov, please, don't make your situation any worse," Pikalov suggests, placing a hand on his back to push him discreetly towards the door.

Stolyarchuk ignores his chief, because he too is realizing that something is wrong.

Dyatlov asks for help to the other men with his eyes, but nobody intervenes in his defense: after hearing Professor Legasov's words, everyone in that room can feel the danger hovering over them.

Stolyarchuk walks around his boss and reaches the phone, calling Sitnikov.

Defeated, Dyatlov leaves the room escorted by Pikalov and the security guard.

"What do we do? What do we do now?” Toptunov asks, swallowing hard.

Valery calms him down: "The situation is serious, but we can still fix it."

"Now I want you to follow the instructions of Professor Legasov!" Boris says in a high, resolute voice, looking around, then exchanges a nod with Valery:  _ "You're in charge now, it's all in your hands." _

Valery looks at the control panels of the reactor for a moment, then get closer to Boris: "There’s no need for you to stay here: you can go to Pripyat. Or further away. It would be better."

Valery doesn’t let the fear he is feeling creep through him, but he’s not sure he will be able to prevent an explosion, and he would like Boris to be away from there if it happens.

Suddenly he understands the reason that led Boris to take the political responsibility of their commission's work on himself: it’s a natural instinct to want to protect your friends and the people you love.

But Boris crosses his arms and shakes his head, making him understand that he won't move from there:  _ “I trust you. And if it goes wrong, I won't leave you alone. Like you said, we’re in this together." _

Valery knows that it’s useless to try to dissuade him, so he looks at him with gratitude, then starts giving orders to the nuclear engineers in the room. He’s methodical and assertive, addressing and solving the critical issues one at a time.

Boris sits in a corner and watches silently: he doesn't dare move a muscle to avoid distracting him, and he barely breathes.

Sitnikov arrives after only ten minutes and he’s dumbfounded when they tell him about the safety test.

"Fomin told me to lower the power of reactor 4 because they were asking for less energy from Kiev. It seemed strange to me, since we are at the end of the month, but I didn't question the decision... I didn't believe that... the safety tests had been suspended according to the new protocols!"

"Did you know about the protocols, Tolja?" Akimov asks.

"Yes, I handed them to Bryukhanov the day they arrived: he said he would take care of it. Didn't he tell you about it?"

Both Akimov and Toptunov shake their head.

"I can't believe it," Sitnikov sighs, clutching the bridge of his nose between two fingers, "what can I do?"

"Come here, help me," Valery says.

In the control room the tension can be cut with a knife, time doesn’t seem to flow anymore, but Valery never loses his nerves, the other men carry out all his instructions and finally, when it starts to dawn outside, the emergency is over and the reactor 4 starts to function normally.

"Don't alter the power for another two hours," Valery says to Sitnikov, "and let me know if there are any fluctuations."

Then he approaches Boris, and finally smiles.

They did it, they avoided the catastrophe.

This time it's really over.

Boris closes his eyes and sighs in relief.

"I told you so," Valery whispers so as not to be heard by other men.

"You told me," Boris repeats. He can’t restrain himself anymore: he gets up and hugs him, oblivious to the other men in the control room. Valery gasps, but after a moment he leans his head on Boris’ shoulder.

"Thanks Valera, you saved everyone."

Then he squared his shoulders: now it's his turn.

"Comrade Sitnikov, where are the protocols we sent you?"

"The last time I saw them, they were in the safe, where we keep the good dosimeters."

"Take them to the director's office."

Just outside the control room, Valery lights a cigarette, letting the nicotine calm his still shaken nerves, and he doesn’t say anything when Boris takes it from his fingers and takes a long drag before returning it to him.

In the office, Dyatlov, Bryukhanov and Fomin are still waiting under Pikalov's watchful gaze.

"Comrade Shcherbina, if I may..." Fomin starts, but Boris throws down everything on the director's desk and then slams the protocols on it, his face thunderous.

The little man gasps and tries to shrink in the chair: no, he is not allowed to open his mouth.

A beat, then Boris' anger explodes in all its violence: he shouts against the three men, accuses them of having put the lives of innocent citizens at risk, shoves their errors, incompetence and lies in their face, brutally exposing their responsibilities.

This time they knew, they have no excuse, yet they chose to lie.

But, despite everything, the three men still try to justify themselves, accusing each other: Fomin says the test was under the direct responsibility of Dyatlov, Dyatlov answers that he just followed Fomin’s orders, and Bryukhanov complains that it’s all Moscow's fault, because it imposes them standards that are impossible to meet.

"You will answer about what you’ve done in a court," Boris dismisses them with a disgusted face, "take them away, I don't want to look at them anymore."

It’s morning when the three men leave the power plant; the adrenaline that kept them up all night waned, and now they are dead tired. In an unusual gesture for him, Boris loosens his tie, rubbing his neck.

"I don't think I can drive right now."

Valery, beside him, drags his feet heavily on the ground.

"Don't look at me, my eyes are closing on their volition."

"There is a hotel," Pikalov suggests, "and I can get the helicopter to pick us up in the early afternoon. I need to lie down too."

Boris turns one last time to look at reactor 4, intact: it will not become a monster with its belly torn, spewing lethal radiation on his native land.

The world will never know what happened in the control room that night, but it doesn't matter: all that matters is that for Pripyat and its people today will be a day like any other.

For Boris is strange, almost surreal to return to the Polissya hotel, the place where Valery told him they would die in five years, where they argued and fought, where they loved each other secretly, silently, carving out brief moments of peace in the despair that surrounded them.

The concierge gives them the room keys. Pikalov has one on the first floor, Boris and Valery two adjacent rooms on the third floor.

The scientist fidgets restlessly, turning the key between his fingers, while Boris opens the door of his room.

"Boris?" Valery takes a step toward him.

"Yes, Valery?"

"Before, you said that I saved everyone, but if it wasn't for you and your insistence on coming here, now we would be facing the consequences of a catastrophe. If nothing happened it’s thank to you too. You know it, right?"

"Well, my stubbornness thanks you: normally it doesn't have many admirers," Boris chuckles.

"I like it, and..."

A couple leaves their room, hugging and laughing.

"Er ... rest well, comrade," Valery murmurs, moving away again.

"You too."

Valery closes the door behind him and leans against it, closing his eyes and bouncing.

"... and I like you too! It was the right occasion to tell him." But then he sighs and shakes his head vigorously, "Ah! Who am I kidding? I will never have the courage to do or to tell him anything. Boris is so..." the thought of him is enough to make him blush: shit, shit, shit, he fell so hard for him!

He lights up yet another cigarette and inhales the smoke deeply, musing: he almost can't believe that his feelings for Boris have changed so much over the months.

At the end of their first phone call, Valery despised Boris, a bureaucrat who thought he could order him around with a snap of his fingers, summoning him back from his conference. Before meeting him, Valery took some information about him: Boris Shcherbina had the reputation to be a stubborn, uncompromising, and hard man, and Valery had thought that they would never get along, and that Shcherbina would kick him out of his office after a few minutes.

Instead Valery had discovered a careful and intelligent man, seriously worried about the reactors. His attitude had confused Valery, because Boris didn't match the rumors about him, but he was also intrigued by his personality.

Over time, he found in Boris an ally who protected him from the KGB and from his own naivety, a sincere friend, a precious confidant like he never had in his life, a sensitive and gentle soul who loves animals.

Of course he fell in love with him! At the beginning only in a platonic way, but lately Boris is also the object of his erotic fantasies.

The first time he jerked off thinking of him, Valery has been ashamed to death, but the temptation was too much, it was like a river breaking the banks, and since then he has never stopped thinking about him, his gravelly voice, his steel blue eyes, and those big and strong hands, every time he touches himself.

If only they were in another world, where he could confess his feelings without fear!

However...

There is a small round mirror at the entrance of the room and Valery looks at himself, spreading his arms: he isn’t attractive, he is a physically ordinary man, a declining one, with a perpetual awkwardness and a pathetic social ineptitude. Even if Boris liked men, why should he be interested in someone like him?

"Boris is just nice to you, though sometimes he seems like... but he can’t be interested in you. Yet, if there was a way to understand if he... maybe I could… ah, I don’t know what to do!"

He ruffles his hair, takes off his glasses, putting them on the bedside table, and throws himself on his bed with a frustrated sigh, without even taking off his shoes, sinking his face in the pillow.

In his room, Boris draws the curtains, although it doesn't do much good against the morning sun. However, it doesn’t matter: he’s so tired that he will not struggle to fall asleep. 

He undresses, carefully hanging clothes in the closet, and lies down.

The sheets smell of laundry soap, but they are as rough as those of his old timeline, the only difference is that now he is alone in bed.

He closes his eyes and remembers the first time he shared it with Valery.

_ It happened the evening after their first kiss.  _

_ They had said nothing, going down that roof, and they had been careful to behave as usual, even more detached and cold, playing the role of mere comrades and colleagues for the KGB agents. _

_ However that night, when Boris was about to fall asleep, he heard a light knock on his door. He opened it, finding Valery out of his room; Boris waited, expecting him to say something and explain why he was there, but Valery seemed to be at loss for words. _

_ Boris looked into the corridor, to see that it was empty, then put a hand on his shoulder, inviting him to enter. _

_ "Do you need anything, Valery?" _

_ The other man shook his head and finally opened his mouth, but only a few confused sounds came out. _

_ "What? I don’t understand." _

_ Valery put his hands on Boris’ chest and kissed him on the cheek with infinite sweetness. _

_ "Good night, Boris. It was this... just this... I just wanted this..." _

_ Valery smiled slightly, then turned to leave, but Boris held him gently, putting an arm around his waist. _

_ "Stay." _

_ "Ah... but I... I never..." He swallowed and lowered his head; the tip of his ears was incredibly red. _

_ "Just to sleep," Boris reassured him, "sleep here with me, Valera." _

_ Valery took a deep breath: "Alright. Yes, that's fine." _

_ Boris gave him one of his pajamas, and Valery locked himself in the bathroom to change; his shyness was almost exasperating to Boris, whose desire had been awakened by that kiss on the roof and by the knowledge that time never stopped flowing, but if Valery didn't feel ready, he would wait. _

_ He turned off the light to put him at ease, and kept himself at a respectful distance when Valery entered the bed. _

_ It was therefore a surprise when he felt Valery’s hand lightly touch his face. _

_ "Can I... can I come closer?" _

_ Boris spread his arms and Valery was on him. He buried his face on Boris’ chest and shortly afterwards, Boris felt something damp and hot wetting his skin through the pajamas. _

_ Valery was crying; silently, without sobbing, without despair, almost with a sad dignity. _

_ "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." _

_ And Boris understood: Valery was mourning and cried for a love born in the most wrong place on earth, and at the most wrong time. _

_ "I know," he whispered softly into the night, gently placing a hand on Valery’s nape, as if to protect him from that pain, but he knew it was useless, because he felt the same deep sadness. _

_ That feeling never left them. _

_ Even when they became lovers, as soon as the excitement of orgasm faded, they looked into each other's eyes and their smiles became more uncertain, in the awareness of the passing of time, of how ephemeral those moments were, of the fact that there would be no happy ending for them. _

Now, in this new timeline, there will be no clandestine hugs in the night, but neither tears of mourning.

It’s fine.

After all, Paulie had said it: it's almost like coming home.

Almost.

But it's not a bad almost.

The phone wakes him up a few hours later: the helicopter is waiting for them.

A splash of cold water on his face, a hand to comb his hair, and he's ready.

Valery leaves his room almost at the same time: his hair is disheveled, he has pillow marks on his cheek, and his suit is crumpled as if he had worn it inside a washing machine.

"Valerka," Boris exclaims, exasperated, "did you sleep with your clothes on?"

"I know," he mutters, trying in vain to smooth the creases of his shirt, "why are you pristine?"

"Because I slept naked."

The midday light is strong enough for Boris to notice Valery's pupils dilating to the point of obscuring the blue of his eyes, while a blush climbs on his cheeks.

Is it just embarrassment or is there a hint of arousal this time?

"Completely naked," he adds, looking intently at Valery's adam's apple bobbing up and down, "you should do it too."

"I..." Valery licks his lips. Undoubtedly he seems interested.

"Not to ruin your suits."

"Ah... sure."

The elevator doors open; a waitress comes out, pushing a service trolley, and looks at them with curiosity.

"Come on, General Pikalov is waiting for us at the helicopter."

"Coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if at that point the situation of the reactor was still recoverable, but I like to think that, with some more sensible decision, things would have gone differently.
> 
> Since my fanfiction is based on the HBO series, the characters of Dyatlov, Bryukhanov and Fomin mirror those of the series and therefore represent the "villains" (in reality they were very different).  
> For Dyatlov, I was missing his denial of "you didn't see graphite on the ground", and so I turned it into "I didn't see any protocol", to keep him in character.
> 
> Starting with the next chapter, the mood of the story will become lighter (and the most juicy parts are coming).


	11. 11

Just outside the hotel, a man who is running bumps into Boris. The Ukrainian remains standing without problems, while the other man falls on the ground with a thud.

"Hey, look where you're going," Boris scolds him.

The man, young, with brown hair, looks up and, as soon as he notices Boris' pin, he begins to apologize, suddenly agitated and scared.

"My fault, my fault, I am sorry, comrade!"

Boris has no interest in terrorizing that boy and offers him a hand, to help him get up.

"Don’t worry, no harm done. Where were you going, such in a hurry?"

The man's face brightens with a radiant smile.

"I'm going to buy flowers for my wife: she just told me she's pregnant."

Pregnant? This reminds Boris of something.

"What is your name, comrade?"

"Vasily Ivanovic Ignatenko, I am a fireman."

Ignatenko.

In his old timeline Khomyuk told him and Valery the atrocious and painful death of that young hero, and the fate, perhaps even worse, of his daughter, who lived only a few hours due to radiation, and of his wife, left alone with the memories of a great love.

Here they are safe too, along with the workers of the plant, the children chasing each other in the square, that two women over there, walking side by side with their shopping bags and chatting cheerfully.

Boris silently takes his wallet and hands some bills to Ignatenko.

The man looks at him without understanding.

"For the baby."

"Comrade, I-I can't accept."

"Do you already have a baby cot?"

"No."

"Then it will be my gift. This is one of the most beautiful moments of your life, let me celebrate it with you."

"But it's too much."

"Then choose the most beautiful baby cot ever."

"Thank you, thank you very much."

Vasily takes the money, thanks him with a nod, then starts running again towards the florist, while Boris and Valery head for the lawn where the helicopter is waiting for them.

"It was a very nice gesture," Valery observes.

"Are you surprised?"

Valery shrugs: "Not me, but that fireman certainly is: you look so grim that one doesn't expect you to be capable of kindness."

"I'm not grim! I’m strict, if anything, but not grim," Boris protests.

"You are, and when you scream you're really scary. But in these months I realized that you can also be like that... sweet. Well, if the term doesn’t offend you,” he adds, looking at him sideways.

"No, it doesn't offend me," Boris reassures him, "but don't tell it aloud, I have a reputation to defend."

Valery smiles: "Your secrets are safe with me... that is, in case you had any secrets... I didn't mean to suggest that you..."

"Valera, relax, I understand."

Seriously, the sense of humor will never be his forte.

The atmosphere on board the helicopter is nice and quiet, now that the danger is really gone.

After exchanging a few words with them, Pikalov dozed off, with his arms folded and his hat lowered over his eyes, and Boris wonders how he can sleep, between the swings of the helicopter and the noise of its engine.

Valery is sitting at the small table, relaxed, and is drawing the Ferris wheel of Pripyat funfair on a notepad.

It's nice to think that, in a few days, that attraction will be inaugurated and the children will be able to use it and have fun. And not just the children: something tells Boris that Ignatenko will bring his wife on it at the first opportunity.

Occasionally Valery looks up and crosses Boris' gaze, sitting in the seat in front of him, as if he were about to say something to him, but he always gives up, returning to draw.

Boris watches him more closely: like before, in the hotel, Valery seems interested in him, but it's really hard to read beyond his anxious manners; Boris doesn’t want to fool himself or do anything rash that would ruin their friendship, but there is nothing wrong with testing his theory.

Now he can afford to think of something else, after having been in tension for months.

He thinks he deserves it. 

He can smile now, even laugh, and he wants to do it.

He brings his arms over the head and stretches lazily, then takes a deep breath and puffs out his chest, making the fabric of his shirt stretch out to its capacity.

The pencil that is drawing on the sheet stops and Valery's mouth opens slightly.

Then Boris sinks more comfortably against the seat and spreads his legs.

Valery's gaze runs unquestionably to his groin, before turning his head towards the window so fast that Boris is surprised he doesn't get a crick in his neck.

"Anything interesting out there?" He can't resist teasing him a little more: an embarrassed Valery is an irresistible sight in any timeline.

"No, I was just wondering where we were."

Boris stands up and joins him; he places one hand on the table and the other one on Valery's shoulders, leaning over to look outside. He is so close to Valery’s face that he can feel the heat and count the freckles on his skin.

Valery sits stiffly like a marble statue and his eyes are huge behind his glasses.

Yes, he is definitely interested.

"We will be in Moscow in about an hour," he says in his ear and Valery swallows noisily.

Then, since Boris doesn’t want to make him too uncomfortable and the place is not appropriate, he returns to sit in his seat.

Pikalov woke up, but he doesn't seem to have noticed anything unusual between them.

However Boris must not forget to be cautious, always. Now they will no longer have the KGB breath on their necks, but homosexuality is not tolerated in any way in the Soviet Union.

The helicopter lands and Pikalov takes leave of them to go talk to his superiors. Boris must do the same: they are probably already waiting for him in the meeting room.

"Will there be repercussions because we broke into a nuclear power plant in the middle of the night?" Valery asks, "Will you have problems?"

"I will have to report to general secretary Gorbachev and there will be questions, but I believe his anger will be directed entirely at those who have disregarded Moscow's orders."

"Please let me know if you need help."

"I’ll do, but don't worry: I've faced worse storms inside that palace."

"So, it's really over," Valery sighs, nervously shifting the weight of his body from one foot to the other, "the work of our commission, I mean."

"Yes, it is."

A shadow of melancholy clouds Valery's face as he sighs again: "Well, I let you go back to your work." He takes a step back, but then he thinks again, "But if you want to, if you have nothing better to do, sometimes we could have lunch or dinner together. It’s true that we don’t live nearby and it’s inconvenient for you, so if you can't, I understand it, there is no problem, you aren’t obliged to..."

"Yes."

But Valery is so focused on his speech that he goes on rambling, undaunted, without registering Boris's answer: "I know you are often out of Moscow for your thousand work commitments, and then you surely have already your friends, colleagues..."

"Valery, I said yes," Boris reiterates with an amused smile.

"Oh..." Valery blinks, as if he can't believe it. "Oh..." he repeats again.

"For a friend, for you, I will always find the time."

"Perfect, great. We will see each other, then," he raises a hand to greet him and then moves away.

Boris smiles and raises his hand in turn.

The following afternoon Boris is examining some documents, when he realizes that he has been reading the same line for five minutes, so he closes the file and sets it aside: he just can't concentrate, and keeps wondering if it's too early to invite Valery to dinner.

Maybe he can do it for the May Day parade? Yes, it seems an appropriate occasion. However, the parade is several days away and he wants to see Valery earlier than that. 

"Enough," he hisses in a low voice, throwing the pen on the table, "this is ridiculous."

He's a grown ass middle age man, he can't act like a teenager, so now he'll lift the handset and...

The telephone rings.

"Yes, Tanya?"

"Comrade Shcherbina, Professor Legasov is here, should I let him pass?"

"Of course!"

"Am I bothering you, Boris?" Valery asks on the the doorway, while Tatyana closes the door behind her.

"No, come on."

"Here, I thought that perhaps the central committee wanted a detailed report on what happened yesterday night at Chernobyl, so I put together a file that summarizes all the operations carried out on reactor 4 and..."

Valery has the papers in his hand and, as he walks toward Boris’ desk, he stumbles into the carpet and makes them fall to the floor.

"And maybe I should have stapled them," Valery sighs, as he gathers them haphazardly.

"And number the pages," Boris chides him blandly, kneeling to help him. "Anyway," he continues, before Valery begins to apologize endlessly, "you did a great job, thank you. Can I repay you by inviting you to dinner?"

Involuntarily Valery gave him the perfect opportunity he was waiting for.

The nuclear physicist nods and so, an hour later, they are sitting in a restaurant facing each other, eating in a cheerful atmosphere, where Valery's quiet voice counterbalances Boris' hoarse and strong laughter.

After dinner, Boris insists on driving Valery home by car, but when they arrive in front of his building, Valery hesitates, twisting his hands convulsively, and doesn’t get out.

"Valery, we’ve arrived."

"Boris?"

"Hm?"

"I... have a samovar!" Valery screams, then closes his eyes and curses himself internally. _I have a samovar_ , could he be more idiot than that?

"Well, it's a very useful appliance." Boris bites the inside of his cheeks, trying not to burst out laughing.

"What I wanted to ask is if you want to come up and have tea with me before you go home."

"Willingly."

Valery fumbles more than he should with the door handle and when he gets out of the car he feels almost dizzy, torn between hope and fear: he must do it now, he doesn’t know if he will have another chance. He just prays he’s not about to ruin his friendship with Boris forever.

God, he needs a cigarette.

Boris follows Valery into his apartment but, on the threshold of the small living room, the scientist stops, and he bumps into him.

"Valery, what's the matter with you?"

Boris sees him straighten his shoulders as if to give himself courage, and hears him murmur "alright," then Valery whirls around and lands a clumsy, wet kiss to the corner of his mouth, almost knocking both down with the force of impact.

It’s a terrible kiss, a kiss so similar to the first one they had in his old timeline, that Boris fears his heart may burst with joy.

"Boris, I…"

"If you want to kiss me, then do it right," Boris whispers, his voice wavering with emotion. He surrounds Valery’s face with his hands and his hungry mouth catches Valery's lips, rediscovering his taste on the tongue as he pushes Valery against the wall, and this, this is coming home, after a long journey in a foreign land, surrounded by hostile faces, without any comfort, the sorrow as his only companion.

Valery is home.

After a few seconds of shock, Valery responds to the kiss with all his might, clinging to his back; he lets Boris satisfy his hunger by exploring his mouth, then, when Boris tries to break the kiss to breath, he chases his tongue, in a bold move that makes Boris’ legs shake.

Valery takes advantage of Boris’ momentary immobility to let his coat slip off his shoulders, then throw his arms around his neck and reclaim his lips again.

Pain, frustration, pining, everything melts and vanishes as they crash their mouths together, as their tongues seek and touch without hesitation, and their hands caress and grope.

Boris didn’t expect so much impetuosity from him; the Valery he knew was more cautious, hesitant, always held back by the sombre mood that surrounded them, while this Valery is vibrant with life and want.

Is this what they can have? The thought is so powerful that it’s almost scary.

Boris self-control slips away quickly when Valery ruts against him, making him feel that he’s as hard as Boris.

"Tell me I'm not dreaming," Valery pants on his saliva wet lips, "tell me it's all true."

"It is, but..."

Valery sighs in delight and a dreamy smile spreads across his face, sweetly basking in the thought that Boris wants him, while Boris tries to cling to his last shreds of lucidity: there is nothing he wants more than to undress Valery and take him now, against the wall, making him scream his name in the throes of ecstasy, but they have to talk first, it's too important for him.

"Wait…"

Valery moans a little complain and kisses him again, and Boris has to put his hands on his shoulders to push him away.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Not really," Valery pants, stroking his neck at the hairline, and Boris shudders, yielding to the temptation of another long kiss that leaves him breathless.

"Valera, we need to talk."

"Now?" The frustration in his voice is tangible.

Boris takes a step away from the heat of Valery's body which weakens his rationality, and presses the back of his hand on his mouth: he still feels Valery’s taste on his tongue.

"I better go now."

"What? Why?" Valery is on him again, and clings to his jacket, "no, stay! No matter what people think, there is nothing wrong with this or with us, Boris!"

Boris kisses him on the forehead to reassure him, "I know and I haven't changed my mind, but I want you to be sure that's what you really want."

Valery looks at him, baffled and even a little angry: "If I am sure? You're joking, right? Boris, I've been thinking about it for months, months!"

Boris raises an eyebrow, taken aback by Valery’s confession: "Months?"

"Why are you so surprised?" Valery mumbles, "You walk around in your perfect suits, with your deep voice and self-confidence... of course I've been thinking of… of you for months!”

A furious blush climbing up his freckled face tells exactly what kind of thoughts kept him company during that time.

Boris chuckles: "These are the hormones talking."

Valery grinds against him again, purposeful and stubborn, and Boris's eyelashes flicker shut.

"It's the same for you."

"I'm not denying it."

"And then," Valery continues, resting his head on his shoulder and eroding Boris' determination a bit more, "there are your kindness toward me, your smiles, there is you, and I... they're not just the hormones."

"I know," another chaste kiss on his freckled forehead, "it's the same to me. I've been thinking about you for months, too."

 _"For years,"_ he would like to tell him, but he can't.

"Then why don't you stay?"

"Because I'm sure you haven’t considered all the aspects of a relationship between us."

Valery is a dreamer, not a pragmatic man like him, in fact he frowns without understanding.

Boris puts his hand on his cheek and immediately Valery nuzzles against it, then kisses the palm.

"Our relationship will always be secret and clandestine: we can't hold our hands along the street, or go live together out of the blue, we will never be able to see each other and stay together as long as we want. You know what the consequences would be if someone discovered us: we will always have to be cautious and discreet."

Valery's expression collapses in an instant and his lips bend down in an unhappy pout: no, obviously he hadn't thought of it.

Boris has already had a secret relationship with Valery in his old timeline, and he is aware of the sacrifices it entails, but the Valery in front of him has no idea, and he must know, to decide if this is what he wants.

"And then," Boris sighs, "it won't last very long."

"Why?"

"Why?” Boris scoffs, “Valera, be pragmatic for once in your life: you can't ignore our age, and I'm ten years older than you. So maybe that's what you want now, but in a few years you'll realize that you could have something different in your life, someone else who doesn't become a burden with the passing of the years."

"Someth..." Valery is so outraged that for a moment he doesn't find the words, "Boris, this is my life!" He waves a hand to indicate his squalid bachelor flat, with the sink faucet dripping, the broken living room window, the yellowed upholstery that smells of smoke, an epitome of his lonely life, that Boris has filled up with his presence. "How can you think I want something or someone other than you?"

"I just want you to think carefully about it, about the problems you have overlooked. Three days: if you haven't changed your mind in three days, then call me and I'll come immediately."

"What if I don't call you?" Valery asks, leaning back against the wall, without looking at Boris, sullen and hurt.

Boris picks up his coat from the floor and puts it on. "I will understand and won't hold a grudge against you."

"Will you just let me go? You don’t care so much about this, then," Valery hisses, now openly offended.

In a flash, Boris is on him again, kisses him, forcing him to open his mouth with a vicious bite on his lower lip, which tears a surprised yelp from Valery, and pushes his tongue into Valery’s mouth, grabbing him so hard he lifts him from the floor; then he interrupts the kiss, as abruptly as he started it, and whispers in his ear: "This is just a glimpse of what I feel for you. If we do it, to me it’s forever, I’ve no plan B, no backdoor exit from us, therefore be sure Valera, for our sake."

He puts Valery back on the floor, but before he breaks the hug, he makes sure that Valery stands on his legs. Then he kisses him on the cheek one last time, closing his eyes, and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The initial scene with Ignatenko wasn't there in my first draft, it was inspired by the conversation with AZ-5 (elim_garak) in the comments ~so, thank you~, about imagining a world where nothing so terrible happened, and then Ignatenkos and their love story came to mind.  
> I believe there is nothing wrong with thinking about a world where love has won.
> 
> And yes, I'm aware that the age gap between Legasov and Shcherbina was 17 years, but the one between Jared Harris and Stellan Skarsgard is 10, so, as this is another universe, I decided to go with it, to give our Soviet grandpas some years more of happiness together in the following chapters.


	12. 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess this is where the story earns the E-rating for real.

Three days, and Boris counts every minute.

Several times he’s tempted to call Valery himself and beg:  _ "Forget what I said: I want you and you want me, let's do this madness without thinking of anything," _ but he can't, this is their only chance to be happy and they can't act lightly.

The third day is a long, endless torture; the phone is silent for most of the day, apart from a few business calls, and Boris is persuaded that Valery thought about it and concluded that no, a long term relationship with a man is too risky for his career, or that it’s not what he wants.

When the phone finally rings and Tanya says him it’s professor Legasov, Boris must strive to keep his voice from shaking.

"Hello Valery."

"Hello Boris. I called you because I have a proposal for you." Valery maintains a friendly but neutral tone of voice: he has learned that there can always be ears listening.

"Let’s hear it."

"As you know, Noch doesn’t get along with Tuman and Ogon, and I thought you could keep him at your place, since he's very fond of you. If it's not a problem, of course.”

"No, it is not."

"Thank you, I'm sure he will be much better with you. I know you told me you never had any pets and you don't know how to take care of them," Valery says. Boris doesn’t contradict him, even though this is a lie: when he was a boy he had several dogs and Valery knows, because they talked about it during their walks along the streets of Moscow, so there must be a reason hidden behind those words.

"But I could come to your place and help you, if you want," Valery continues, "And then I’ll miss Noch very much, so I hope you don't mind if I visit you sometimes."

Ah, here's what Valery's goal is: to have a valid excuse in everyone's eyes, to start spending time with him regularly.

"I believe that I’ll need your help often: I really don't know anything about cats," Boris replies, and he just can't hide the smile in his voice.

"Great. So, would you come to take Noch tonight?"

"Yes, see you later."

Valery prepared Noch's cage, where he laid out a small towel to make it more comfortable.

"You've thought of everything," Boris observes, taking off his coat and resting it on a chair.

"You said that we must always be cautious."

"You were smart, exploiting Noch."

"I'm a nuclear physicist. And then I really want to make him feel better."

"I'll take care of him willingly," Boris touches Valery’s cheek with the back of his fingers, "So, are you sure?"

"Yes," Valery asserts, resting his hands on Boris’ hips. "I was even before, but I did as you told me: I thought about it, and I'm still sure."

Boris takes off his glasses and puts them on the table, "You know we will have to draw up some rules."

Valery follows the movement of his lips and nods absently; Boris sighs, but smiles: "Again, you're not listening to me, are you?"

Valery's arms surround his waist.

"Can we talk about it later?" he begs.

"Later," Boris agrees, and finally kisses him.

The moment their lips touch, the want reignites, intense as the first time; Valery is clumsy but eager, he wants to touch Boris everywhere at the same time, his hands move nervously along his back, his thighs, his chest, while Boris tries to convince him to move towards the bedroom at the end of the short corridor. He tosses away the horrible rust-colored sweater Valery wears, but the move reveals an undershirt that seems to have come straight out of the ‘40s.

The part of his brain that isn’t occupied in enjoying Valery's hands unbuttoning his shirt records that, among the things to do in the future, an improvement in his wardrobe is absolutely necessary.

They lose their clothes carelessly on the floor and stumble when they take off their trousers and socks; it would be easier to undress if they stopped touching for a while, but neither of them seems able to do it.

When Valery lands on his back on the floppy wool mattress, Boris kneeling over him, they’re wearing only their underwear, that can’t hide their arousal. 

Boris kicks off his pants, then puts a hand on Valery's quivering stomach, and follows with his fingertips the inviting trail of reddish hair that disappears under the elastic.

Valery lifts his hips, takes off his pants, and then Boris can’t resist anymore, he’s on Valery, takes him in his mouth, heady, impatient, intoxicated by Valery’s smell and his bitter taste on the tongue, but he goes too deep, suffocates and has to re-emerge, coughing.

"Borja... oh, Borja, come here." Valery pulls him by the shoulders, beaconing him, and Boris goes up, worshipping Valery’s body in his route, thrusting his tongue into the navel, teasing the coarse hair with his nose, licking and sucking the small and brown nipples, and Valery trembles and writhes beneath him, his head thrown back on the pillow.

Boris reaches those inviting, kissable lips and claims them again, as he lies down on Valery, their genitals smashed together, from the glans to the testicles, and starts rocking his hips.

Valery spreads his legs to make room for Boris and moans in his mouth, but the friction between their bodies is almost painful without a lubricant.

"Wait," Valery gasps, "in the drawer..." he waves his arm to the bedside table, and Boris reaches out, taking a tube of vaseline, half empty.

"Someone has been busy."

Valery mumbles: "What do you think I did in these three d... oh, ooh..." His eyes flutter close as Boris' hand grabs his erection, slowly spreading the ointment.

"What were you thinking?" Boris pants, taking himself in hand to finish the job.

Valery bites his lips, eyes fixed on Boris' erection disappearing in his big hand, "It doesn't matter, reality is better than fantasy."

Boris lies back on him and agrees: yes, it's definitely better.

They soon find their rhythm, Boris pushes down and Valery arches his back to meet him, kissing his mouth to pour his moans into it, the bed springs creaking and protesting under their thrusts.

Boris blocks Valery's hands on the side of his head and interlaces their fingers. 

"I want everything with you, Valera, everything," he pants, licking a drop of sweat down his neck. Valery frees his hands from Boris' grip and clings to his back, digging his nails into the flesh, "Yes Borja, oh..."

There will be time for tenderness, now Boris needs this: the frenzy, the fire, the feeling of Valery's body moving beneath his, and judging by the way Valery responds to his attentions, it’s the same for him.

"I want to fuck you," Boris growls, almost delirious with pleasure, "I want you to fuck me."

Valery's hands slide down his back and grab his buttocks, then he freezes and comes with a cry that Boris suffocates in his mouth, and the heat of Valery's seed splashing on his stomach is enough to make him reach the orgasm.

"Val... Valera..."

"I know, I know." Valery holds him close, gently stroking his sweaty back and nape, while the world is still spinning at an unbelievable speed around Boris.

In another time, Valery told Boris that he was his rock, but right now Boris thinks that it’s the opposite: it’s Valery his lifeline, his world, his everything.

Boris tries to lift, but Valery holds him back with an annoyed grumble.

"We have to clean up," Boris chides him, kissing his temple.

"Not yet." Valery's fingers play with his gray hair.

"In a little while I have to leave," Boris sighs, rolling onto his back.

"What, already?"

"Valerka, I explained it to you." Boris touches his cheek with the back of his hand, "I don't like it, but we have to be careful."

"No, no, I know, I understand," Valery replies, stroking his arm, "but I hoped that you could stay, at least tonight." He looks at him with his beautiful blue eyes and bats his eyelashes.

"Valery Alekseevich, are you giving me puppy eyes?" Boris blurts out, incredulous, lifting himself up on one elbow.

"I don’t know. Does it work?"

"You will make me break my own rules, don't you?" Boris bursts out laughing and drags Valery on himself, trying to kiss him, but it's an impossible task, because Valery is giggling madly too.

"I’m sorry," Valery says, resting his chin on Boris’ chest, "it's just that it still doesn't seem true that you want this with me."

"That should be my line: I didn't think you were interested in me."

"Really?" Valery gapes at him, and Boris scratches an eyebrow, muttering: "After all I haven't done anything special for you, it's not like I got you all the liquid nitrogen of the Soviet Union or a lunar rover."

Valery laughs again, a little puzzled: "And what I’m supposed to do with a Lunokhod?"

"Nothing, it doesn't matter."

"It’s true that we are different and we don't seem made to be together, but you... you saw me," Valery says, serious again, "you listened to me, you stayed by my side even if I’m a difficult person. No one else has done it, no one has ever stayed long in my life. I think... yes, I think this was what attracted me. Irremediably." He kisses his chest, then stands up, "I'll be right back."

He walks to the bathroom and comes back shortly after with a small damp towel to clean Boris, lightly teasing him as he bites his lips.

"I'm not your first man, am I?" Boris asks, gently pushing Valery’s hand away from his softening cock: he is still too sensitive for those attentions.

Valery shrugs and throws the towel on the floor: "Some clandestine encounters at university, but we were so drunk that we didn't remember anything in the morning. This," Valery intertwines their fingers, "I never had it. And what about you? Am I your first man?"

He has been, although in another time: Valery is his first and only man, always and everywhere. He regrets not being able to confess it, and he merely murmurs a cryptical, "yes and no."

"You say that science is complicated, but you also don't speak clearly, Boris Evdokimovich."

Boris makes him lie down on the bed again: "What do you say about this: you will be my last man."

Valery's mouth trembles with emotion; he bites his lips and nods, shy but happy, then turns off the light and hugs him, his forehead resting on Boris' nape, a hand on his chest.

"Are you asleep?" Valery whispers after a few minutes.

Boris grumbles "no," even though he's on the brink of sleep.

"I wasn’t unhappy about what my life was like, you know," Valery continues, playing absently minded with the silver hair on Boris’ chest, "I had my cats, a great job which I love, better than that of many other comrades, a good salary so I never had financial troubles. I was fine, I didn't want anything different." He stops to kiss Boris’ protruding vertebrae and a shoulder, "but..."

Boris encourages him, placing a hand on his.

"Since I met you, my perspective has changed: suddenly there was a void in my life, that I never noticed before, and you filled it. Now I have the impression that I've always been waiting for you. I know it's sappy..."

"It’s not," Boris interrupts him; he brings Valery's hand to his lips and kisses the fingertips one by one, "because I've been searching for you for all my life."

"Thank you for finding me," Valery whispers, when Boris is already asleep.

In the dim light of the room, he sees the shape of his head, his shoulders, his broad back rising and falling following the regular rhythm of his breath: it’s really like if Boris belongs to his bed, to his life since forever, and he feels a surge of affection so strong that his eyes water.

_ "You’re a sentimental fool," _ he says to himself, but there is still a smile on his lips when he closes his eyes.

In the middle of the night they seek each other again. They hardly wake up, kissing in the dark, gentle and lazy, sighing happily, whispering sweet nonsense, their soft bodies pressed together without a precise intention, until Boris' hand slips between Valery's legs.

Valery groans in delight, his body arches like a bow, and he grabs Boris’ cock in turn.

Their hands move languidly, without haste, letting the pleasure grow slowly, until they reach an almost quiet orgasm.

They kiss again, nuzzling their faces with their noses, and then fall back to sleep again, exhausted.

"Borja..."

Boris is awakened by Valery's lips kissing his cheek; he opens his eyes, but the light outside is still gray.

"What time is it?" He mutters.

"Just past five o'clock."

Good, they still have some time.

"I know you have to go back to your house," Valery continues, moving his lips on Boris’ neck, "You can take a shower, if you want."

"Did you already take it?"

"Yes."

"Well, it was a waste of hot water."

"Why?"

"Because," Boris lifts up abruptly, dragging him onto the bed and ignoring his indignant yelp, "soon you'll have to take another one."

"Boris!" Valery utters a remonstrance, which dies as soon as his eyes settle on Boris' morning wood.

"You don’t want me to leave when I’m like this."

"Oh no," Valery's arms surround his shoulders, "I would be a terrible host."

Boris kisses him; with one hand he tosses away the towel Valery has around his waist and with the other one he looks for the vaseline, but their effusions are interrupted by a symphony of insistent meows. 

Boris ignores them, but Valery puts a hand over his mouth and slips out from under him.

"I have to feed them."

Boris is dumbfounded: "Now? You're joking, right?"

"No, this is the only time of the day when they team up together and believe me, they wouldn’t leave us alone."

"I can't believe it," Boris growls, lying on the mattress and looking at the ceiling.

"Sorry," Valery laughs, "I’ll hurry." He gets up, slaloming around his cats not to accidentally trip on them, and disappears down the corridor.

Boris waits, horny and frustrated, and waits, and waits, but his patience is proverbially short lived, so, naked as he is, he grabs the tube of vaseline and gets up, picking up all the clothes scattered in the corridor.

"Are you giving those cats leftovers or are you cooking a wedding dinner for them?" He blurts, putting the clothes on the sofa.

Valery is fumbling at the stove. "Ah, sorry," he replies without turning around, "I thought of making breakfast for us too. Do you like scrambled eggs? I hope so, because I don't have much else in the fridge!" He chuckles.

Boris doesn’t answer: Valery is no longer completely naked, he has put on a shirt, too big for him, and he had to roll the cuffs.

Valery is wearing Boris’ shirt.

The thought is unexpectedly erotic.

His shirt.

Valery is his.

He wants him.

"Boris? The eggs?" Valery, still without glasses, turns off the stove, and swings around, squinting to see better. He’s taken aback by Boris’ intense and hungry gaze: the Ukrainian is devouring him with his eyes. "Uhm..." Valery stammers.

"That's my shirt," Boris growls in a rough voice.

Valery scratches his neck, lowering his eyes: "Ah yes, I picked up the first one I found. Wait... is that why you...?" He gestures in the direction of his remarkable erection, raising his eyebrows, flattered, "Oh, wow..."

Boris pulls him to his chest by an arm. "You're mine," he blows on Valery’s lips.

"Yes, Borja," Valery closes his eyes, expecting a kiss, instead he finds himself against the table, one of Boris’ hand between his shoulder blades, pressing to bend him forward. He shudders, but obey.

Boris kneels behind him, lifts the hem of the shirt, grabs his buttocks, spreading them, and before Valery has time to figure out what's going on, he licks his entrance.

"Oh... OH!" Blood flows to his groin so quickly that Valery’s world becomes grey around the edges; he presses his lips together not to scream, because his apartment is no longer be controlled by the KGB, but his cries would be heard by the whole neighborhood.

And then Boris' tongue is inside him.

No one has ever done this for him, it’s so beautiful that he almost go crazy as he trashes on table and can no longer form a coherent thought.

Boris goes on relentlessly. He kisses, licks and scratches the wrinkled skin with his teeth and at times he pushes his tongue inside him; Valery's legs tremble like leaves, he’s leaking, and he’s out of breath as if he had run a marathon.

When his knees ache, Boris stands up, but he can't resist tickling Valery's testicles, already heavy and full.

"Borja..." Valery chokes on a sob, his forehead pressed on the table and his hands clawing at the edge. He's a beautiful disaster, his disaster.

Boris gently kisses his back and caresses his thighs to calm him.

"Forgive me, but you are irresistible like that."

He pours the vaseline on his finger and then place it on the Valery opening, massaging the muscle that clenches under his ministrations.

"Okay?"

"Please, oh please," Valery moans. He turns his head to look at him, his face red, almost feverish, his hair disheveled.

Boris must summon all his self-control to prepare Valery slowly and ignore the part of himself that he would like to take him now and roughly.

When Valery's body stiffens due to the intrusion, Boris slightly bends his fingers, grazing his prostate, and Valery jumps.

"Again," he pants, "do it again."

And Boris certainly can’t resist such a sweet plea.

Every moan, every sigh, every cry from Valery makes him more and more aroused. His erection is almost painful, so he closes his eyes with relief when Valery whispers: "I'm ready... please..."

Boris positions himself, pushing as slowly as possible until the glans is in; he pauses for a moment, relishing in the warmth of Valery's body, which clenches rhythmically around him, then starts pushing again, until his testicles touch Valery’s.

He sets a slow pace, too slow for both of them, coming out almost completely of him and then pushing hard again: he wants to drag that pleasure to infinity, but then Valery reaches his hands behind him and scratches his thighs.

"Faster," he hisses.

Boris lays a hand on his side, speeding up his thrusts, and reach around with the other hand between Valery’s legs, squeezing his throbbing cock, and this time Valery doesn't hold back a cry.

"Valera..." he warns.

"It's so... I..." Valery has to put his hand to his mouth to stifle another scream, when Boris hits his prostate.

"I know," Boris grunts: the pleasure grows uncontrollably, as pushes deeper and deeper into him, and jerks Valery off frantically.

It’s Boris who comes first, for endless seconds, the world a white explosion behind his closed eyes, and then bends on Valery, slowly pulling off him.

He realizes that Valery came too only when he starts moving his hand again and finds it wet and sticky.

He gets up on still weak legs and then helps Valery do the same.

"How do you feel?"

A smile of bliss lightens the freckled face: "Yours," he murmurs, hugging him. "And you?"

"I feel at home." Boris strokes Valery’s cheek and rests his lips on his forehead, "I'm home."

Then he unbuttons his shirt, pulling it off his shoulders, and leaves a scarlet love bite on Valery’s collarbone.

"Now I really have to go," Boris sighs, and dresses.

"Hm," Valery tightens his lips and nods silently: he isn’t happy, but understands.

When Noch is closed in the cage, Boris straightens his shoulders and squares his jaw: he isn’t happy to leave, too.

"Will you call me?" Valery asks.

"I'll do it soon," he confirms, "we still have to discuss those rules."

One last kiss, and then he's in the empty corridor.

He uses the back door of the building to leave, even though it may be excessive caution, and after wandering around the neighborhood for a while, to make sure he’s not being followed, he gets in his car and starts the engine.

Noch meows with a questioning tone.

"We're going to my house," Boris says, "you can't know, but from today you'll have a very important role in our lives."

The black cat just looks at him, before curling up and closing his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The main story ends here, but since I wrote it imagining a future for them, I found myself writing another five chapters of them dealing with life: something sexy, something fluff, something sad.


	13. 13

And so it begins, with ups and downs and many obstacles.

As Boris had foreseen, being cautious isn’t one of Valery's best trait, and the scientist shows to be annoyed by the rules they have established. 

In the morning he often tempt Boris to break them, hugging, kissing, and pleading him: "Call in sick. Stay here with me."

But Boris can’t do it. He rarely missed a day's work, he went to his office in any weather and even when he was really ill: if he suddenly changed his habits, that would arouse suspicion.

"You care about the rules more than you care about me," Valery often sighs, frustrated by the situation and the lack of freedom in their relationship.

One morning Boris wakes up hearing the scratching sound of a pencil on the paper, and he understands what Valery is doing even with his eyes closed. To an extend, it flatters him that Valery considers him beautiful to the point of using him as a model, but it’s still a problem.

"As much as I like your drawings, and you know I like them, if that ended up in the wrong hands we would both be in danger," he mutters, "just because our committee was terminated, it doesn't mean the KGB won't be spying on us again in the future."

He slowly opens his eyes, and Valery puts his hands in his lap with the guilty face of a child caught by his parents stealing a cookie from the jar.

"I know, you're right, it was an instinctive impulse," Valery joins him on the bed and kisses him on the shoulder, "did anyone ever tell you that you have a beautiful back? When I look at it, I want to draw it,” he murmurs, caressing the object of his admiration with the back of his fingers.

"Do you think you can get away like this?" Boris lifts himself up on his elbows and takes the drawing: it's a very sensual portrait of him sleeping, with his arms stretched under the pillow and the sheet that barely covers his buttocks.

"I can hide it in a secret place, they will never find it," Valery suggests.

Boris rolls on his back and raises an eyebrow: "Let me guess: under a floor lath, under where you keep the cat litter."

Valery gapes at him: "How do you know?"

He is really naive.

"Because it's the first place where to look."

"Then I guess I must burn it."

Boris puts the drawing on the bedside table: "No, there’s no need, I'll keep it in a real hiding place."

"I’m sorry…” Valery sighs.

Boris should tell him one more time how important it is to be cautious, but Valery is wearing his shirt again, and this is distracting Boris immensely.

Then there are their jobs, both very demanding, that limit their chances to see each other.

Boris must attend meetings and inaugurations, and supervise the construction of infrastructures: because of this he’s often away from Moscow, sometimes for weeks, and even when he’s at home, Valery can’t stay and sleep at his place the days when the housekeeper is in.

Valery spends his time between the laboratory, experiments, conferences, and the new tasks assigned to him after being part of the Shcherbina commission; moreover he has always been a workaholic, he can work late into the night without realising it, and at the beginning sometimes it happens even when he and Boris had agreed to meet.

With anyone else, Boris would get angry, but Valery has such a miserable expression when he's mortified, that he just can't.

Sometimes, when they meet, they are too tired to do anything but sit on the couch and exchange some lazy kisses, listening to the radio and rubbing their shoulders, sometimes they’re happy simply falling asleep together, sometimes they meet for a quick lunch in that that has become "their" restaurant, other times they are definitely too randy for their age.

One night, after Boris has been particularly bold and they lay breathless on the corridor floor (no, they couldn't get on the bed), Valery covers his face with his hands.

"What?" Boris asks naturally, licking away the last traces of their intercourse from his thumb.

"You ask me?" Valery whispers. "I won't be able to think of anything else for days."

His voice is positively scandalized and Boris chuckles: he can't help, he has an enormous but also fragile ego, that sometimes needs to be gratified, and Valery is giving him a boost right now.

"I hope so."

"You are terrible. At our age we should sit on the sofa sipping chamomile tea, with a blanket on our legs."

"Oh no," Boris bats away Valery’s hands to look at his face: "I've spent my whole life behaving appropriately to my age and position, sacrificing everything else. Now I want to be happy."

Valery puts his hands on Boris’ chest and looks at him from under his lashes with those incredible blue eyes: "Do I make you happy?"

"You'll never know how much," Boris whispers, kissing his temple, "you'll never know."

But, despite the obstacles, it works: over time, some of Boris' clothes migrate to Valery's wardrobe and vice versa, on the shelf of the respective bathrooms there is always only one toothbrush and one razor, but now there are others in the cabinet, easily misunderstandable for spare ones.

The most important thing is that when they close the door behind them and they are one in each other's arms, they’re overwhelmed with joy, with a sense of _ "yes, I missed you terribly, but now you’re here and everything is fine". _

In his old timeline, Boris never thought about how his life with Valery could have been, had the Chernobyl accident not occurred. It hurt too much, it was a thought that brought him despair rather than joy, because the reality was tragically and cruelly different.

Therefore, now that he is living how it could have been, Boris loves every second.

He thinks he has ever smiled so much in his life, and when Valery looks at him as if he were something extraordinary, Boris knows that it’s the same for him too.

It’s difficult to bear being apart, even months after the beginning of their relationship, but the moments together compensate the pain widely.

One morning Boris wakes up because something fluffy is tickling his belly: it's Ogon, who has decided to use him as her personal mat while she’s devoting herself to her daily grooming. When the cat notices that the human has opened his eyes, she gifts him with a bored yawn.

Valery is not in bed, but Boris hears noises coming from the kitchen: he is making breakfast.

"I am a deputy chairman of the council of ministers, you should respect me," he says to the red cat, pointing a finger at her, "and for your information, Noch is much more polite than you."

In response, Ogon performs in her favorite move: lifting her hind leg and licking her butt.

Now Boris hasn’t any doubts: that cat is making fun of him.

"You know Ogon, you're lucky I'm madly in love with your owner."

A crash of broken dishes scares the red cat, who hides under the bed, and also Boris starts.

Valery is standing in the doorway of the bedroom: he was carrying a tray with breakfast on it, but he let it fall to the floor, and he’s red in the face and under the vest, more than when they exchanged their first kiss.

"Valery, do you feel ill?" Boris stands up, careful not to step on the scattered fragments of porcelain on the floor.

"You... you said that..." he whispers in amazement.

"What?"

"You lo..."

Is it because he said he loves him?

"Well, it's obvious! Do you think I'd be here if it wasn't like that?"

"You never said it out loud," Valery murmurs, lowering his eyes.

"Do you want me to say it?"

Valery's cheeks take on a beautiful scarlet hue again as he nods, and to Boris it's curious that he blushes now, after all they've done in bed (and out), but it's also incredibly sweet.

He takes Valery’s face in his hands, rubbing it roughly, and forces him to look into his eyes. 

"I love you," he says slowly.

Valery puts a hand on his chest and pushes him towards the bed.

"Say it again."

"I love you."

Valery makes him lie down.

"Again."

"I love you."

"Call in sick. Stay here with me today," Valery whispers on his lips, and there is an irresistible fire in his eyes, so Boris can do nothing but succumb: he calls his office and pretends to be sick for the first time in his life.

Removed the fragments of the broken cups, Valery makes him lie back in bed and that morning he gifts Boris with one of the most erotic moments of his life.

He kneels between Boris’ legs and begins to lick him slowly, from the root to the glans and then down again, he traces the path of the veins with the tip of his tongue, kisses the frenulum, torments the sensitive skin of the foreskin with his teeth, tickles him with his hot breath, then licks him again.

When Valery finally takes him in his mouth, squeezing a hand around the base, Boris is already drenched in sweat and has run out of curses. He clenches the sheets with one hand, the other is on the back of Valery’s neck, to encourage him to move his head, but Valery seems determined to drive him crazy. He slows down or stops completely whenever Boris' breathing becomes more labored, holding only the tip of Boris’ cock on his tongue, and when Boris's testicles tighten, Valery lets him go, resting his chin on Boris’ thigh until he calms down.

One side of Boris, the impetuous alpha male one, would like to roll Valery on his stomach and brutally fuck him through the mattress, but a part of him is intrigued by the erotic game that Valery is carrying out, so he gives him full control.

Valery touches him again, this time using only the tips of his fingers. He tickles his testicles, making Boris jump on the bed, teases again the frenulum and the crown of the glans, and when Boris arches his back feeling the orgasm approaching, Valery stops.

Valery continues the very sweet torture, using his mouth and hands for almost an hour; Boris lets him do it and doesn’t beg, because Boris Shcherbina does nothing like that (even if his uninterrupted moans betray him), but in the end he reaches his limit: it is as if his nerves were raw, and just a lick or a light caress causes him such intense pleasure that it borders on pain, and his testicles are swollen and heavy between his legs.

"Let me come Valera, I need it," he pleads in a wanton voice.

Valery welcomes him back into his mouth, bobbing his head, rubbing the rough palate against his glans. Boris expects Valery to use a hand to help himself, and tries not to rock his hips and accidentally chokes him, but Valery brings one of Boris’ hand to his nape.

"Don't hold back."

"But…"

"Don't do it," Valery repeats, and his voice is absolutely steady.

Valery takes Boris’ cock in his mouth again and goes down, down, down without stopping, under Boris’ astonished gaze, until his breath tickles Boris’ pubic hair.

Boris can feel it, Valery's throat tightening around him, and that's when he loses control: he grabs Valery's hair and holds his head in place as he arches his back and thrusts as deep as he can inside his hot, wet mouth. The orgasm runs through his whole body, from toes to brain, so intense that it sweeps away all his thoughts, and he barely hears Valery coughing and moving on the mattress. 

He opens his heavy eyes and sees that Valery is jerking off furiously on him, lips tightened, brows furrowed, and when he comes on Boris' stomach, he bends forward and closes his eyes, then lets himself fall on his back on the mattress next to Boris, with a happy and satisfied smile.

For a while, in the room that smells of sex, you can only hear their gasps, then Valery breaks the silence murmuring "thank you".

His voice is hoarse after Boris has thrust so deep in his throat.

Boris is shamelessly proud of it.

"Actually, I should be the one to thank you."

Valery looks at him sideways.

"This was one of my fantasies," he explains.

"Well, then I authorize you to use me to satisfy your fantasies whenever you want."

"Boris?"

"Hn?"

"I love you too."

Boris smiles: he knows, but it's nice to hear it. He understands why those words had such a disruptive effect on Valery.

He searches Valery’s hand and squeeze it.

Boris also has fantasies. A curiosity, in particular: Valery seems to love particularly when he is inside him, and if it’s such a remarkable experience, he wants to try.

Some solitary attempts leave him more perplexed than satisfied, but perhaps with Valery it will be different.

The occasion comes up soon: they haven't seen each other for about ten days due to their respective commitments, and Boris is already half hard since he set foot in Valery's apartment.

"I love you," he declares, breaking the quiet silence.

Valery is making tea, facing the sink, but Boris just needs to see the tip of his ears to understand he's blushed.

"You are the person I trust most in the world, I would trust you with my life." To Boris it’s a necessary premise. "This is something I never thought about or ever wanted to do before I met you, but it's different with you. You are my exception," he continues, proud of the speech he prepared, "my only exception, of course."

At this point Valery turns around, eyebrows raised, somewhat perplexed, as if he had lost part of the speech somewhere: "Er... what are we talking about now?"

"I was sincere when I asked you the first time."

Valery's expression doesn’t light up, he doesn’t understand.

"I want you to fuck me."

Boris' confession causes the end of another tea set, that slips from the tray and ruins to the ground.

Boris scratches an eyebrow, while Valery wipes out the broken porcelain: in the future he will have to make sure that Valery holds nothing in his hands, when they face certain topics, or they’ll find themselves drinking the tea directly from the thermos.

But Valery is just like that: over time he has become bold and confident when it comes to sex, even curious, like a good scientist, but the emotional element of their relationship never ceases to strike him.

Even now, when Boris passes an arm around his waist and whispers in his ear, "I love you," Valery becomes incredibly shy and hides his face on Boris’ chest.

"Okay... now?" Valery asks, having finished sweeping the floor.

Boris raises an eyebrow: "If you like, we can check our agenda first."

Valery snorts, then licks his lips, "No, that's fine."

Once in bed, Boris forces himself to relax while Valery prepares him, but it’s less simple than he had imagined: the intrusion of someone else's fingers in such a private area of his body makes him feel vulnerable, even if it’s Valery.

"Not everyone likes it, you know," Valery informs him in a natural voice, as if he were talking about the weather. "It's okay if..."

"Valerka, you're not talking to a teenage girl who is about to lose her virginity."

"I know, I just wanted to say that if you don't like it and want to stop, there's no problem."

"Duly noted."

Valery dips his fingers in the vaseline jar again and returns to prepare him: he has learned when it’s useless to argue with Boris and his stubbornness.

"You like it," Boris notes.

Valery purses his lips to suppress a smile and nods.

"Why?"

"I guess you mean in addition to the component of physical pleasure. I think it's because of the sense of belonging, because I feel I am really yours when you’re inside me."

"I see. Then maybe that's why it didn't drive me crazy, when I tried to do it alone."

Valery's fingers stop.

"You have…"

"I experimented a bit," Boris admits. Why is Valery so shocked? He believed that he, as a scientist, would have appreciated his method.

"Oh..." Valery's cock twitches noticeably, and Boris realizes that it’s not shock: Valery is turned on thinking about what Boris did.

A devilish smile spreads over Boris' face: "I experimented different positions: standing in the shower, kneeling on the bed..."

Valery presses his other hand over Boris’ mouth, panting: "I'm warning you: if you keep talking, we'll do nothing today." 

Now his cock is dripping against his stomach.

Boris turns his head to get rid of Valery’s grip: he has long understood that Valery has an unusual fascination with his voice, especially when he is so explicit, and intends to take advantage of it.

"However your fingers are thinner than mine and therefore... AAH!"

Valery finds a different method to silence him: he slightly bends his fingers and grazes his prostate.

Boris literally sees the stars behind his closed eyes: he has never experienced such an intense sensation.

"That’s unfair," he pants, when he catches his breath.

"It was you who started it."

"Go on," he mutters, and Valery leans over to kiss his nose, continuing to prepare him: "Bossy."

"Always."

Boris feels he has become accustomed, at least in part, to the intrusion, so he grabs Valery's wrist and stops him.

"I'm ready."

Valery squeezes more vaseline on the palm of his hand to spread it on his erection.

"Do you want me to do it?" Boris asks, but Valery shakes his head; he has to sit on his heels and breathe deeply to calm himself: the mere idea of Boris' hands on him has brought him to the brink of orgasm.

"You really want it, to be inside me."

Valery clenches his fists on his knees, "Yes, and your voice isn't helping me." 

He's still dangerously close to come.

Boris wonders why Valery's reaction is so visceral: he used his hands and mouth on Valery several times, is the penetration so different? Perhaps it has something to do with that sense of belonging. 

Boris sits up and takes Valery’s hand, kissing the sensitive skin of his wrist, then he gently strokes it with his thumb.

"Sorry," Valery snorts, embarrassed by his own reaction, but is silenced by Boris' lips of his.

Valery puts his hands on his chest and makes him lie down again.

"It would be easier for you if you turned around, on your hands and knees."

Boris however is adamant about the position: "No way: I want to see you."

"All right. Actually, I prefer it this way too," Valery kisses him again, tenderly, then positions himself and, helping himself with one hand, pushes his cock inside Boris.

The first moments are anything but pleasant, it’s useless to deny it; Boris has superficially put aside Valery's concern, but the pain is real.

"Boris, do you want...?"

"Go on."

Valery nods, but he is careful, and stops every time a grimace make Boris' face twist in pain.

In the end, however, he is completely inside him.

The feeling is indescribable: being joint like this, feeling Valery, hard and pulsating within himself, is an experience that goes beyond pleasure.

"B-Borja... oh Borja, you're so..."

Valery's arms tremble, and his freckled forehead is beaded with sweat.

"Tell me."

Valery shakes his head slightly and bites his lips: "I can't... it's too much."

"Tell me," Boris insists.

"You are everything. Everything I want."

Boris raises his legs, bringing them on Valery's back.

"Then take me."

Valery sobs and closes his eyes, then starts to rock his hips. His mouth opens, but only small breathless moans come out, punctuated by his name, repeated like a prayer.

Boris is overwhelmed by Valery's cock moving in and out him, his testicles slapping rhythmically on his buttocks, and Valery's nails scratching his skin. He no longer feels vulnerable, only incredibly complete.

When Boris thinks it can't be more intense than that, Valery raises his legs higher and changes the angle of his thrusts, grazing his prostate.

In another moment, Boris would be ashamed of the sounds that slip out of his mouth, but now the only thing he is aware of is Valery, who fills him and pushes him towards the peak of pleasure.

"Touch yourself," Valery whispers, his eyelids heavy, a blush blotching his skin, sweaty hair stuck to his forehead.

Boris puts his hands on his erection, pumping furiously and squeezing himself around Valery.

"Bor..." the rhythm of Valery’s thrusts breaks, becomes frenetic, and then he freezes when he comes inside him.

Boris can feel him, Valery's hot come inside him, and that's what pushes him over the edge.

Valery comes out of him slowly and carefully, then he just collapses on him, his body still shivering with the aftershocks.

"I love you."

Boris would like to hug him, as Valery has done so many times with him, but the orgasm has left him dead tired, he can only plant a small kiss of apology on the strawberry hair.

The flip side of the coin is an insistent discomfort that makes Boris limp when he gets out of bed: pretending that he’s perfectly fine when he’ll be in his office, will not be easy.

"It will pass in a few hours," Valery reassures him, while they’re in the shower, "well, maybe in a couple of days, the first time."

"Is it always like this?" Boris asks, suddenly feeling terribly guilty for having hurt Valery every time he took him too forcefully.

"No, don’t worry."

"Well, I am worried if I hurt you!"

But Valery blushes uncontrollably as he looks down and murmurs, "There's no reason. I'm not... I'm not averse to a bit of pain."

"Oh... you're a man full of surprises, Valera," Boris chuckles and kisses his forehead.


	14. 14

Towards the end of August 1986 the IAEA conference is held in Vienna. Valery and Ulana, along with other scientists, are called to participate representing the Soviet Union.

"Is the IAEA conference now?" Boris looks up from his soup, when Valery announces it during a dinner at their restaurant. In his old timeline it was much later.

"Yes. Why are you so surprised?"

"No, nothing, probably I'm getting confused with some other conference."

"Won't you come?"

Boris shakes his head: the central committee hasn’t said him anything about it, and in the same period he has a work commitment there in Moscow.

"Too bad," Valery lowers his voice to an inaudible whisper, as he pours water into his glass, "I would have liked to visit Vienna with you."

"Valery, there will be some Charkov’s men in the delegation for sure, be..."

"... careful. I will be."

In his old timeline, Valery was the undisputed protagonist of that conference, and got a thunderous round of applause from the other scientists, but he was never proud of it, because he couldn’t tell the truth about the causes of the Chernobyl accident. It was one of the many reasons that led him to depression.

Now Valery will not have the stage all to himself, he will be one of the many scientists there, but he will not have to lie, and Boris knows that for him it’s the most important thing.

"And have fun with your... scientific stuff."

Valery snorts a laugh.

The day before the departure, the scientists are called to the Kremlin, because they want to review and approve their speeches.

Boris and Valery are friendly, but extremely professional, no one can suspect that they’re anything other than good acquaintances, not even Charkov, who carefully observes each of the scientists who is attending the meeting.

While they are leaving the room, Boris approaches Ulana.

"Keep an eye on him while you're in Vienna," Boris murmurs, referring to Valery, who is walking just ahead of them.

"Like you do?" The woman asks with her usual omniscient smile.

"No, not exactly like I do," Boris grumbles, and it's the closest thing to a coming out he has ever done in his life. He does it because he knows he can trust Ulana and it’s right for her to know. They will never be best friends (their personalities are too similar), but there is respect between them.

"Well, you don't have to worry: Legasov wouldn't let me. I’ll just use him as a bag holder when I go shopping."

Boris imagines Valery trudging behind Ulana, arms full of shopping bags, and lets out a chuckle: he really regrets not being able to go to Vienna.

However he’s chill about the conference: there is no accident to justify and cover, Valery and Ulana will simply talk about their respective studies, they will brainstorm with other scientists, respecting the strict soviet protocols, and in three days they will be back home.

But the last day of the conference something unexpected happens: contrary to what has been planned, the central committee authorizes that the soviet scientists are interviewed by Fox News, without the questions being previously reviewed.

When Boris knows about it, the blood freezes in his veins. 

Shit!

"Who had this idea?" He asks his assistant.

"Gorbachev himself: he says it's an opportunity to show the world his new transparency politics."

But Boris isn’t entirely convinced of that: none of the members of the delegation has been prepared to the possibility of an interview with the Western media, or instructed on what to say, it seems a strange move from Gorbachev.

Boris meets general secretary in the corridors of the Kremlin; Charkov is behind him, an almost invisible but sinister and silent shadow, and Boris understands: he was the one who suggested that move.

It’s extremely twisted, almost sick, but it reflects the man's way of thinking: if a delegate at the Vienna conference put the Soviet Union in a bad light with his answers, there would be consequences once at home, and it would be Charkov who took care of it.

The Vienna conference is like a test in Charkov’s mind: his only creed is  _ "trust but verify," _ and that’s the occasion to verify the loyalty of a group of influential scientists to the soviet socialism. Charkov is like a hyena wandering around a herd of gazelles, patiently studying them to identify the weakest specimen, on which he will jump at the first opportunity.

And Valery, awkward, naive, unaware of the weight of words and careless of politics, is at risk: no one is better than him in saying the wrong words without even realizing it.

Boris greets them with a respectful nod and continues to walk, but Charkov stops him: "Boris Evdokimovich, do you want to join the general secretary and me?"

"For what?"

"We're going to watch the interview with our scientists in Vienna."

"Of course," Gorbachev says, "you know well some members of our delegation, don't you?"

"A bit," he replies, shrugging and feigning indifference, but he follows the two men into Gorbachev's private office, where other party members are already waiting.

The U.S. journalists are ruthless and direct in their questions, that soon move from the IAEA conference themes towards more political territories: they ask questions about the freedom of speech in the Soviet Union, and Valery's colleagues who are answering them, are pretty defensive and uneasy.

Boris shuffles in his chair: he would give anything to be there in Vienna and be able to handle the situation.

Charkov looks at him intently: "Is something wrong, comrade?"

Boris ignores him and turns directly to Gorbachev: "I’m not entirely sure that it was a good idea: our men should have been be prepared in advance to face an interview with an American TV."

"The Western world holds an unfair bias against us: I expect our eminent scientists to be able to refute it. Don’t you agree, Boris Evdokimovich?"

"These men spend their days closed in a lab," he blurts out, feigning contempt, "they don't know much about the real world. It would have been better if we had sent someone more used to speak in front of the cameras."

"Someone like you?" Charkov says with a mocking smile, "Did you want to show off a hat or your new suit?"

Boris smooths a non-existent crease of his jacket and barks a laugh, "It's a beautiful suit, it's a shame that nobody sees it."

It’s better that the two men think of him as a snooty popinjay, rather than understanding his real concerns.

Now it’s Ulana who is talking. At one point the journalist asks her about atomic weapons, but the woman replies that she knows nothing about it, because it’s not what she is working on.

A truth and an elegant omission, but Boris has no doubts that Ulana is able to get by in all circumstances, it’s not for her that he is worried.

"I think that comrade Khomyuk is doing very well," Gorbachev says, "Your fears are unfounded."

The camera moves to Valery, already nervous and sweating, and Boris freezes.

"Are you sure you're okay, comrade Shcherbina? You’re pale," Charkov insists.

"What? No, I'm fine," Boris says, using all his acting skills. He even directs a perplexed look at Gorbachev, as if to say that he finds Charkov's attention towards him strange, and he’s convincing enough for the general secretary to raise an eyebrow at the KGB man.

Meanwhile, the journalist is pressing Valery on the RMBK reactors: he wants to make him admit that they’re inferior to the Western ones.

The delay in Valery's replies doesn’t depend only on the translation. To Boris, the ongoing battle within him is clear: Valery is torn between the urge to tell the truth and the awareness of the consequences if he does, it can be seen in his every grimace, in the way he twists his hands and tightens his lips.

He just hopes it's not so clear for the other men in the room with him.

Thousands of miles away, the interview with Valery continues.

"Professor Legasov, do you mean that there are no reasons of concern about this type of reactor?" The journalist presses.

Valery hesitates: he is aware that, even if they have identified and corrected a serious defect, the RMBK reactors remain unstable and prone to accidents, and the preparation of the Soviet personnel working in the power plants isn’t the best. In what other civilized country can you take a degree in nuclear engineering with a correspondence course?

In a perfect world, RMBK reactors wouldn’t exist.

That of the journalist is a deliberately provocative but honest question, and it would deserve a honest answer.

Another Valery, more naive and idealistic, would give him that answer. However, if he said what he’s thinking, he couldn’t go back home anymore.

Boris.

He wouldn't see him anymore.

The very thought causes him a wave of nausea.

Furthermore, what good would come from admitting that in the West they’re more careful about safety and that their nuclear power plants are better? It wouldn’t change a thing.

Boris' commission has already achieved a lot in terms of safety, and they don’t live in a perfect world.

Bitterly, he must reach a compromise with his conscience.

"Professor Legasov?" The journalist insists, seeing that he doesn’t answer.

Valery bares his teeth in the ugly imitation of a smile and shrugs, "No, no worries whatsoever."

He knows he’s not very convincing, his face speaks for himself, but it’s the best he can do.

At his side, Ulana sighs heavily and the attention of the journalist returns to her.

"Do you have anything to say, Dr. Khomyuk?"

"It's just that you talk as if the Western reactors were completely safe and accident-free, but Santa Susana or Three Mile Island say the opposite."

To this, the journalist doesn’t know how to reply.

Valery looks at Ulana: he admires her, really admires her, he would like to have half her presence of mind. She has managed to defuse a tense situation and at the same time to tell a great truth.

Shortly after the interview ends and, in Moscow, Boris can relax again: even though Valery's nervousness was more than evident, and his answers didn't sound credible, he didn't say anything that could get him into trouble. Of course, he can’t expect a promotion after that interview, but he will not be erased from history.

However, Valery had to lie even here, though not as badly as he did in Boris’ old timeline, but it does seem that Vienna is a bitter chapter in Valery's life in any reality.

Boris feels sorry for Valery, because he knows how bad he feels when he’s forced to lie and hide the truth, but there is a side of him that is happy that he did it, and that he didn’t provoke the ire of the party.

They have a secret code to contact each other after a trip: the one who stays in Moscow takes care of the cats, and the one who returns from the trip calls him to invite him home to dine, to repay him for the trouble.

But this time, coming back from Vienna, Valery doesn't call him immediately.

It’s strange, usually Boris is the one who waits a couple of days before calling, while Valery picks up the phone as soon as he sets foot in his apartment.

In the end it’s Boris who calls, but Valery doesn’t answer.

That silence has to do with Vienna, Boris is sure of it, and it seems that Valery doesn't want to talk, but that doesn't mean he doesn't need to, so Boris shows up at his house without waiting for an invitation.

He has a copy of the keys, so he doesn't bother to knock.

The smell of smoke is intense, but it’s not unusual. What's unusual is to see Valery curled up on the sofa, with an empty bottle of vodka and another one half empty on the floor.

He's awake, he saw him come in, but he still doesn't say a word.

Valery rarely drinks, never so much, so whatever thought is afflicting him is a serious matter.

Boris sits at the foot of the sofa with a heavy sigh, and drinks the vodka directly from the bottle.

"I know you're not happy with what you told that journalist."

"Every lie we say..." Valery mutters and Boris interrupts him, completing the sentence for him: "... incurs a debt with the truth."

Valery frowns, his mind slowed down by alcohol: "How do you know what I was going to say?"

"I understand how you feel, Valera," Boris murmurs, stroking his cheek.

"No," Valery replies, taking his hand and bringing it to his chest, "you don't know. It's not just because I lied. I have a moral dilemma and I can’t solve it." He closes his eyes, on the verge of falling asleep or fainting from the excess of alcohol, but Boris insists to talk: if they don't do it now, tomorrow Valery will find another excuse not to do it, but what torments him will not fade away, continuing to settle inside him and turning into depression, and Boris can’t allow it, so he shakes Valery.

The professor opens his eyes and extends his hand, asking for the bottle, and Boris hands it to him reluctantly.

"Don't you want to tell me what your dilemma is?"

"It’s you."

Valery takes another sip of vodka, hoping that it will clear his thoughts, but his eyes become more confused.

Boris takes away his hand from his, returning to caress his cheekbone with his thumb, and waits patiently for Valery to explain himself.

"Before I met you I wouldn’t have hesitated, you know? Someone asked me a question? I answered sincerely. That's why my career has been at stake for years. But in front of that journalist I... I could only think of you. Why?” He looks at Boris with lost eyes.

Boris takes the bottle from his hands and drinks, then puts it on the floor.

"It's because of love."

Valery looks at him without understanding.

"Didn’t you know? Love makes people incredibly selfish, unapologetically so. While I was watching your interview I was happy that you lied, so you wouldn't have problems with the party once at home. This is what love has done to me, and I won’t apologize for what I feel."

Valery frowns, incredibly upset, and asks again the bottle of vodka: "I never thought that love and morals could come into conflict."

"Has this never happened to you before?"

"No.”

“I see.”

“You should be happy, you know? It means that this is the first time I'm in love for real."

"I am," Boris reassures him.

"But my dilemma remains," Valery sighs, then closes his eyes, speaking in an increasingly slurred voice: "This time I didn't say such a serious lie. Khomyuk is right: it's not that the Western reactors are absolutely safe, compared to ours, as the journalist hinted. So it may be that the debt to the truth isn’t too high in this case."

"But…"

Valery drinks again, and Boris decides it's better if he stops, so he takes the bottle, brings it to his lips and finishes it.

"But after the interview I went back to the hotel and started asking myself what I would do in different circumstances, if telling the truth was essential to save lives. What would I choose, you and our life together, or the truth? I couldn't give myself an answer."

"And you turned to cheap vodka."

Valery bursts out laughing, for those reasons that only drunks find amusing: "Not a good idea, I guess."

"No, probably not."

"Boris?"

"Hm?"

"I'm tired, I'm terribly tired."

He made no physical effort, but his mind is exhausted, by dint of mulling over that thought.

"Come on, let's go to bed."

"No, I don't want to move. I just want to stop being tired. And I want my answer."

Drunkenness is overpowering him, making him agitated and incoherent.

Even if he knows that his back will not thank him in the morning, Boris passes an arm under Valery’s knees, the other one around his shoulders and lifts him, carrying him to the bedroom.

Valery clings to his jacket and chuckles, raising his voice, "I'm your bride!"

"Valery..." Boris warns, but Valery doesn’t stop moving and laughing, and Boris almost stumbles.

"We're married now!" Valery exclaims with enthusiasm, smacking a drooling kiss on the collar of Boris’ shirt.

"Hush..." Boris whispers, even if he knows that Valery doesn't understand him anymore, then undresses him, puts him to bed and turns off the light, getting ready to spend the night awake sitting in a chair, in case Valery feels sick.

In the dark, Valery searches for his body and when he can't find it, he moans in alarm.

“Borjaaa…”

"What's up?"

"Come here, here with me!" He shouts and punches his fist hard on the mattress.

To calm him down, Boris sits on the bed; Valery's hand finds his knee and he stops whining.

Boris thinks Valery has finally fallen asleep, but after a while he speaks again, and he’s still distressed.

"I don't have my answer! Where is my answer? I don't know..."

Boris bends over him, and kisses his hair.

"You don't have to worry: you will always choose the truth above everything, Valera, I know it."

"But... but... but how do you know, if even I don't know?" Now his voice is so dim that it’s hard to make out the words, but his breath is labored and he trashes on the bed: he can’t calm down and rest, and Boris knows he has to do something.

He thinks about it carefully, then decides to tell Valery the truth about himself. It's a risk, but Boris is reasonably certain that in the morning Valery will not remember anything, or he will think he has dreamed.

So he tells him that he came from another timeline, where the Chernobyl accident happened, and where Valery sacrificed himself in the name of truth.

Valery chuckles from time to time, weeps every now and then, occasionally mumbles something incomprehensible, and Boris doesn't know how much of it he’s understanding, but he diligently concludes his story.

"... I begged you to accept the deal with the KGB, because I didn't want to lose you. I chose you, but eventually you were faithful to the truth, and in that courtroom you told everything," Boris murmurs, lost in memories, a hand in Valery's hair, "you wanted the truth not to be covered up, you wanted everyone to know, at any cost. So, stop tormenting yourself: if it should happen, you will choose the truth once more, in the name of the greater good, because this is what you are. I know it, I've seen it."

Valery waves his hand in the air to caress Boris’ face, but clumsy as he is and slowed down by the alcohol, he ends up slapping his neck and nose.

"Boris," he says. For a moment his voice is so clear and lucid that he doesn't seem drunk at all, and Boris is utterly scared, "I left you alone, I hurt you."

Boris doesn’t answer: yes, Valery's suicide left him completely devastated, in a constant mourning that never faded, until he met Paulie. And, if he wants to be honest with himself, it hurt to be left alone, even though he knows that Valery suffered as much as he did, so he never held a grudge against him.

But it was hard, it was incredibly hard to go on without him.

Meanwhile, the Valery lying at his side doesn’t stop fretting, and Boris's silence only makes things worse: Valery clings to his waist with surprising strength, sobbing and whining loudly.

"Borja, I hurt my Borja..."

"No, no, it's alright," Boris reassures him, resuming caressing his hair, "you didn't do anything."

"I hurt my husband!" he sobs.

"We aren’t married."

"Of course we are! You carried me to bed bridal style!” Valery insists with the impeccable logic of the drunks.

"You're right," Boris smiles, "I carried you in my arms."

He hopes that, by indulging him, he will stop shouting, instead Valery begins to cry in despair.

"What is it?" Boris whispers, stroking his neck with his thumb.

"It’s true..." Valery pants "... I would choose the truth."

"See? I told you."

"Do you hate me?"

"No Valera, I could never hate you just because you make the right decision."

"Swear it," he insists with the petulant tone of a whiny child, stomping a leg on the mattress.

"I swear."

"I'm sorry I left you alone," Valery mumbles on his thigh, "do you forgive me?"

"I already forgave you a long time ago," Boris says, scratching his nape, as if Valery were one of his cats.

"And do you still love me?" Now Valery is practically crushing him in his anguished embrace.

"I’ll always love you."

"Hm, my sweet sweet Borja, my... husband..." he murmurs, and finally falls asleep.

Instead, Boris remains awake for a long time, thinking that, in his old timeline, Valery faced a infinitely greater anguish, completely alone.

One of the many reasons that tightened the rope around his neck.

He lies down beside Valery and pulls him in his arms, gently, so that he doesn't wake up, and then he whispers softly: "I'll always be by your side, whatever decision you make, I promise."

And maybe it's just his impression, but it seems to him that Valery relaxes in his sleep.

The next morning the hangover hands its bill to Valery, and it’s a very high bill: he has stomach ache, nausea, dizziness and a pounding headache.

Boris decides to stay and take care him, but he learns that Valery is a terrible, plaintive, and demanding patient: the tea he made is too hot, then it’s too strong, the blanket is too heavy and Boris makes too much noise when he moves around, so much so that in the end the Ukrainian moves to the living room: Ogon's company is better than that of a Valery dealing with the consequences of a hangover.

In the early afternoon Valery wakes up: the headache has dropped enough to allow him to move without feeling sick. He doesn't go far, anyway: he curls up on the small sofa, resting his head on Boris's thighs, and closes his eyes, sighing happily when he starts stroking his hair.

"Better?"

"A little, but you have to make me a promise."

"Sure."

"You must never let me drink again: I authorize you to become violent to take the bottle from my hands."

Boris chuckles, brushing Valery’s ear with his thumb.

"Agreed: no more drunkenness for you."

For a while, Boris caresses his head silently, then he torments his lower lip between his teeth and finally asks cautiously, trying to maintain a neutral tone of voice, "What do you remember about last night?"

A beat, Valery frowns, perhaps in an attempt to remember, then sighs: “Not much, to be honest. You came here, we talked for a while about the interview I gave in Vienna, but then I must have fallen asleep, because what I remember it’s too strange."

"Like?"

"A wedding... I think... but everyone was crying... so either it was a terrible wedding or it wasn't a wedding... but it's really confusing and has no sense. Does it happen to you too when you get drunk?"

"I never get drunk, I can hold my alcohol."

Valery laughs softly: "As I told you, from today you will drink for both of us," then he turns on his back, looking into his eyes.

"I'm fine, I'm calmer now, really. I'm sorry if I acted like an idiot, both last night and this morning. "

"It's fine," Boris massages his temples with his fingers, "sleep a little longer, the headache will go away faster."

Valery closes his eyes, and after a few minutes he’s snoring lightly.

Even if Valery doesn’t remember exactly the things that were said, deep inside him the sensations remained, he made peace with himself and his conscience, and this is the most important thing.

That of 1986 is a icy and harsh winter even by Russian standards.

Low temperatures, snow and wind besieged the capital for weeks, and many people get the flu.

To Valery, it’s much worse: his proverbial distraction makes him constantly lose hats, gloves and scarves, even his coat one day; he begins to have a persistent cough, that he neglects, thinking that it will go away, but it doesn’t happen, and one afternoon he feels ill in his office and he’s urgently taken to the hospital.

Boris finds it out only two days later: worried by Valery’s radio silence, who often calls him using Noch as an excuse, he asks for him at the Kurchatov Institute, where a secretary laconically tells him the news.

"What? Where did they take him?"

"I don’t know."

Boris hangs up: he's just wasting his time and he has to know immediately what happened to Valery. After a round of phone calls that seems endless, he finally has his answer: Valery is in the Third hospital, and he has pneumonia.

Boris speaks to director of the hospital, reminds him that Valery is an important member of the Academy of Sciences, and a resource for the State. He demands a single room and every possible care for Valery: he will pay for everything.

Boris’ heart is screaming at him to get up, to leave that damn office, run to Valery and stay by his side day and night until he's healed. 

He would also like to shake Valery by the shoulders and scold him, because how many times did he tell him to go to the doctor for that insistent cough?

Instead he can only sit there, crushed by a ruthless system that doesn’t allow him to express his feelings.

He can claim that he’s paying the hospital care to an esteemed member of the society and the party because he cares about the interest of the State, he can visit Valery every now and then as a friend, but a deeper concern from his side would raise suspicion.

However, speaking of concerns, there is one thing that he must do immediately: go and feed Ogon and Tuman. They have been alone for two days, and Valery will be out of his mind with worry.

Only after that, Boris goes to the hospital.

Valery is in ICU, and the doctors initially don’t want to let him in, because he’s not a relative of the patient.

It’s another bitter pill to swallow for Boris, that makes him hate even more the society in which he lives. In the eyes of the law, he and Valery are two perfect strangers, it doesn't matter that Valery has no one but Boris, no close relatives to whom his health matters.

Of course, Boris could bribe the hospital staff to make them turn a blind eye, but a person who accepted money from him would have no qualms to accept it also from someone else, to report that Boris Shcherbina spends every minute at Valery Legasov's bedside.

"You can only see him for a few minutes," a doctor tells him abruptly, agreeing to let him in the ICU only for the fear of the pin Boris has on his jacket.

Valery is under the oxygen tent, his breathing is shallow and difficult, and he barely opens his eyes when he hears Boris enter the room.

He is without glasses, therefore Boris must approach the tent for Valery to see him.

A nurse is in the room checking Valery’s vital signs, so they can only look at each other; Valery raises a hand: he is clearly scared, looking for comfort, but Boris can’t offer it to him and this makes him feel useless.

"Borja..." Valery silently syllables, and Boris puts his hand on the plastic curtain that separates them. They can't even touch each other, and this breaks his heart.

"I'm here."

"The cats…"

"I'll take care of them, I’ll take care of everything, Valera, just worry about getting well soon."

Valery rests his head on the pillow and nods weakly.

"How do you feel, comrade?" Boris asks, but the nurse looks at the monitor that checks his vital signs and shakes her head: "It's better if he doesn't try to talk, he's weak and needs to rest," she adds, suggesting that the presence of Boris isn’t beneficial to the patient’s health.

"I see."

Boris tries to communicate to Valery with his eyes all that he can’t tell him with the words, but Valery's suffering and miserable gaze haunts him, when he turns and leaves his room.

Valery’s health struggles to improve: sometimes he has uncontrollable attacks of coughs that leave him without any strength, sometimes he has such a high fever that he’s delirious and doesn’t recognize him.

Boris suffers with him, and lives those days in the constant fear of losing him.

There isn’t always someone in the room with Valery to help him, because there are many other patients that the nurses have to take care of, so Boris decides to throw away caution and he spends as much time as he can in the hospital: Valery needs him.

One afternoon, Valery tries to get up and take a few steps in the corridor, leaning heavily on Boris's arm, but in the evening the fever rises again, violent and sudden.

"I’m here, I won't leave you," Boris whispers in his ear, before leaving him in the doctors' care, and spends all night in a plastic chair in the corridor outside his room.

The following days Valery is too weak even to eat and drink alone. It’s Boris who puts pillows behind his head, pulls him upright and brings a glass of water or a spoonful of soup to his mouth, persistent like the stubborn Ukrainian he is, even though Valery says he isn’t hungry.

"If you don't eat something you won't get better, and I won't leave until you finish the bowl."

"You're my rock," Valery murmurs with a smile, struggling to eat.

Boris isn’t arrogant to the point of believing that it’s thanks to his presence that Valery’s health improves, but he doesn’t want to think about how Valery would let himself go, if he were alone.

In this timeline, there isn’t a tragedy that has brought them together, but they need each other in the same way, the feeling that binds them has never changed.

One day, Boris raises a hand to stroke his hair, but Valery pulls away abruptly.

"I’m dirty," he mumbles, embarrassed, "I haven’t taken a shower in days."

Boris' hand rests on his head anyway.

"I don't care about this nonsense."

But since he sees that Valery is uncomfortable, he calls a nurse to help him with a sponge bath.

"Boris, no, you don't have to..." Valery protests weakly, but he’s powerless against Boris’ stubbornness.

"Of course I have to, it will make you feel better." 

A quick glance at the empty corridor, and then Boris rests his lips on his forehead.

"And you worried about becoming a burden to me..." Valery sighs, but Boris kisses him again.

"I love you: you aren’t a burden to me, Valera."

The clacking sound of heels on the floor warns them that the nurse is here, and Boris takes a reasonable distance from Valery. They make him sit on a chair and wash him with the sponges, then Boris rubs him vigorously with the towel so that he doesn't get cold.

"You are lucky to have a special friend who helps you," the nurse comments, buttoning his pajamas.

Valery raises his eyes on Boris, terrified: have they been too obvious in their gestures of affection?

Boris is ready to defend themselves, to deny, to threaten if necessary, though he doesn’t like the idea, but the woman goes on calmly: "Also my cousin has a special friend. I think it’s a good thing, to have someone. Can you put him to bed, please? I have to check three other patients," she asks to Boris.

The politician nods with a bit of delay, still surprised by her words: under the strict dictates of the Soviet socialism there is a very different real society. He will reflect on this again, when Valery will get better.

Valery falls asleep as soon as he rests his head on the pillow, and Boris arranges the oxygen mask on his face: it’s worrying that a simple bath has left him so exhausted.

He sits next to the bed, watching his chest rise and fall slowly, and holds his hand, as if he could give him strength through it. Then, when the night comes, he got up.

Valery is still sleeping.

"He will heal, right?" He asks to the same nurse.

"He's still very weak."

It’s not the answer that Boris wanted to hear, but he is grateful to her for not having lied.

Valery spends almost a month in the hospital, before his condition improves enough for the doctors to let him go home, but he's not cleared to return to work yet: he must spend some time in a place with a temperate climate, on the sea, and avoid any kind of physical effort.

Boris finds a small dacha in Crimea, where Valery can spend his convalescence, and a housekeeper who will take care of him.

"Actually, I feel good now," Valery protests, bored by the long stay in bed, and not happy at all about having to rest some more. When he was better, he had Boris bring him some books and his sketch pad, but the days in the hospital were endless and boring, and now he worries about the work that is piling up on his desk.

However, Boris is inflexible: he forbids Valery to set foot in the Kurchatov Institute or to work on any project, until he has the clearance from the doctors.

"I will die of boredom," Valery complains, dropping on the bed, "I'm used to live in the city, not in the country. What is there to do in Crimea?"

"In Moscow it's still too cold, and you can't risk having a relapse."

"With all the drugs the doctors gave me, it’s impossible for it to happen."

"My driver will pick you up tomorrow morning," Boris says, closing Valery's suitcase, and with this he considers the discussion closed.

"Will I go alone?"

"You know I can't go with you, it would be too strange. Then, I’ve to leave for Siberia for work."

"Oh, so you can work, and I can't?" Valery yells, openly upset.

"Valery..."

"I wonder what kind of patient you would be, if our roles were reversed."

Boris strokes his hair, "Better you never find out."

"That terrible?"

"Even worse."

Valery laughs and captures Boris' hand in his.

"Stay here tonight?" He asks hopefully, raising his lips in a mischievous smile.

"I can't, I have to pack my suitcase too, but I'll come to see you as soon as I get back from Siberia. Maria will take care of our cats in the meantime."

Boris kisses his forehead and leaves, trying to ignore Valery's disappointed pout: his suitcase has been ready for days, he simply didn't want to stay.

Of course he misses the physical component of their relationship, and knows that’s the same for Valery: while he was hospitalized, they had to settle for fleeting and clandestine touches and a couple of quick kisses, and Boris wants nothing more than to feel the warmth of Valery's skin under his fingers and his taste on the tongue.

But the doctors were clear: Valery must avoid any physical effort and, in Boris’ opinion, sex falls into the category, so he will have to wait until Valery feels better, and be happy with his hand and some fantasy to satisfy his needs in the meantime.

When finally Boris reaches Valery in the dacha, he finds no one at home, not even the housekeeper.

Worried, he looks for him in the neighborhood, when he sees Valery coming from the dirt road that leads to the nearest village, with a shopping bag in his hand.

Valery sees him and speeds up his pace.

"Reckless brat!" Boris hisses, walking towards him.

"Boris! I wasn't expecting you so soon."

"Valery, what are you doing?"

"I went to get something for tonight's dinner. If you had informed me of your arrival, I would have bought something more, but it should be enough."

"And why are you without a coat?"

Valery is wearing only a turtleneck sweater and a light jacket, but no hat or scarf.

"Because it's hot today!" Valery yells, but Boris takes off his scarf and wraps it around his neck, pushing Valery into the house.

"The housekeeper should do the shopping, not you. By the way: where is she?"

"I told her to come only twice a week."

"What? Why?"

Valery puts the shopping bag on the table, then turns to look at him, exasperated.

"Because I don't need her to come more often, she just have to clean and make the laundry, I do everything else, as I've always done."

"What if something happens to you while you're alone? The doctors recommended that..."

Valery throws his arm in the air: "Boris, it's been almost two months since I had pneumonia, now I am completely healed, and I can't bear this forced inactivity anymore. I talked to a doctor down at the village: according to him I can go back to work, and I intend to do it as soon as possible."

"But…"

"No buts," Valery replies, putting his hands on his hips, "I've already decided. And now come here, I don't want to fight with you."

Boris would like to convince him to wait a little longer before returning to Moscow, but Valery throws his arms around his neck and kisses him, slipping his tongue into Boris’ mouth, and making him forget what he wanted to say. It's been too long since they kissed properly and when Valery drags him on the sofa, Boris follows him meekly.

The atmosphere starts to warm up when Valery gets rid of his jacket and loosens Boris's tie, but Boris’ mind has never stopped ruminating: what if Valery gets too tired?

His stomach comes to his rescue, gurgling noisily and destroying any guise of a romance atmosphere.

In fact, Valery stops, puts his hands on Boris' shoulders, and looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, it's my stomach," Boris confirms, grumbling, "I left this morning at dawn to get here and I didn’t stop to eat."

"Oh, Borja!" Valery rubs his nose against his and starts to get up, but Boris stops him.

"No, I'll cook tonight."

"But I told you I'm fine," Valery sighs, the exasperation that returns in his voice.

"Can't I cook something for us?" Boris replies, defensive, opening the kitchen cabinets in search of the pots.

Valery decides to let it go for now.

"Is it perhaps a veiled criticism to my cooking?"

Boris chuckles and starts peeling the potatoes.

That evening Boris wants to go to bed early, saying he is tired from the long journey, but the following morning he is gently awakened by soft lips that kiss his neck and slowly go up to his ear.

"Boris? Are you awake?” Valery asks languidly, glued to his back.

"Hm..."

"Good morning," Valery chants, and ruts against him, making him feel his morning wood.

Boris's first instinct is to turn around and take him now, but the worry returns in full force: won't it be too soon?

"Do you want to have breakfast?" he tries.

Valery rises to his knees and sighs heavily: "All right, you asked for it, Boris Evdokimovich."

Two strong arms turn him on his back, Valery sits heavily on his chest to immobilize him and, before Boris realizes what is happening, he takes his hands and ties them to the wrought-iron headboard of the bed with his own scarf.

"Valery, what's the matter with you?"

"Since you don't want to understand that I’m healed, I have to make you understand, by fair means or foul." 

A smirk lifts Valery’s lips as he undresses under Boris' eyes, and then takes off Boris’ pajama pants.

"I'm just worried about you," Boris mutters, and Valery leans over him, almost touching his lips with his, "And I want you to understand that I'm not made of porcelain, I won't break."

"Okay, I understand," Boris raises his head to have that kiss, but Valery straightens up.

"You didn't deserve it, not yet, not after making me wait so long."

"What?" Boris gives a violent tug to the scarf, but Valery made a perfect knot and it’s useless. "Valery, untie me!"

Valery lifts his pajama shirt and kisses his belly, caressing the inside of his thighs, and making him shiver.

"Your body doesn't seem to be against being tied."

Yes, his treacherous cock is fully erect, ready to receive attention from Valery: he needs it, as much and perhaps more than Valery, after the long forced abstinence. 

He relaxes on the pillow, tacitly surrendering the control to Valery.

Valery slips between his thighs and inhales his smell with an obscene groan.

"Hm, I missed you," Valery's hot breath is on his genitals, making him moan.

"I have been here since last night," Boris whispers; his breathing is already heavier, and they have done nothing yet.

"Oh, I wasn't talking to you," Valery replies with a mischievous light in his eyes, then Boris' erection is engulfed in the wet heat of his mouth.

It's so sudden, so delicious, that Boris can't resist and arches his back, pushing himself deep inside Valery’s mouth, before regaining control of his body and falling back onto the mattress.

"I’m sorry," he gasps, closing his eyes, but Valery puts two fingers on his lips, making them slip past the barrier of his teeth.

"Your mouth can do better than apologize."

Boris licks and sucks his fingers, and Valery uses them to prepare himself, his eyes closed, a delighted smile on his parted lips. Valery's skin, pale and freckled, is only a few centimeters from him, a very sweet temptation. Boris's hands tremble with the want to touch him and his hips raise in the air again: being tied is a real torture.

"Valera..." he pleads.

Valery moves his fingers inside himself, and looks at Boris from under his lashes.

"This will teach you to deny yourself to me."

Boris growls, tugging his arms again, but when Valery gets up on his knees and positions himself above his cock, he starts: usually he prepares him longer. 

Valery reads Boris’ concern in his eyes, and shakes his head: "I told you: I’m not averse to a bit of burning."

Valery lowers on him slowly, his thighs trembling, his body stretching around Boris' erection, a long moan that leaves his lips, and finally he’s impaled on him.

"Oh! Oh yes," he moans. He allows himself a few moments to adapt to the intrusion, then he puts one hand on the headboard for balance, squeezes the other one around his cock, which is dripping on Boris' paunch, and rides him.

Boris looks at him, hypnotized by the erotic sight of Valery who is using him to give himself pleasure, and he starts moving too, enjoying every shiver, every sigh, every clenching around his cock.

Valery is extremely vocal, now that he must not hold back in the fear that some neighbour will hear them, he cries in ecstasy whenever Boris’ cock touches his prostate, or when he massages his heavy testicles, and his voice is like gasoline on a fire for Boris, who feels the pleasure igniting his groin.

Valery rides him faster and faster, "Sorry..." he pants, "I won’t last, it's been too long... OH! OH BORJA!” He doubles over, his breath hitched, his legs trembling, surprised by the violence of his own orgasm, and he comes on Boris' belly and pajamas.

Boris throws his head back on the pillow and growls in frustration: it's hard to keep control over his body and not rock inside Valery.

But then Valery unties the knot around his hands and leans over him, licking his lips, and when Boris moans, Valery kisses him almost brutally, still moving and clenching around him, ignoring the overstimulation.

"Valera..." Boris gasps a warning: he will not resist, if Valery continues to provoke him.

"Fuck me Boris, I can take it," he bites his ear forcefully, "I want it."

Boris' iron will breaks and his instinct takes over: he throws Valery down on the mattress with a growl, penetrating him again with a sharp push of his hips that makes Valery scream.

"Yes Borja!"

Valery is still open and soft after his orgasm; he scratches Boris' back and buttocks, and sobs in his ear, making Boris lose his mind: the blood boils in his veins, his heart pounds in his chest as he rocks and rocks relentlessly into Valery, feverish, almost animalistic in his desire, and he comes with a choked cry on his shoulder, his body shivering, his testicles aching, and Valery clenches around him once more, causing Boris a new, violent spasm the leaves him exhausted.

Boris pulls out and has barely the strength to roll on his back, while Valery is still whispering, "oh, yes..." with a blessed smile.

The bed is a disaster, they’re breathless, the sheets are tangled around their limbs, and Valery lies across the mattress, his head resting on Boris' belly.

"See? Now do you believe I'm fine?"

"I'm the one who won't recover anymore," Boris grumbles, and a moment later they’re laughing out loud, still drunk on endorphins.

"So," Boris pants, when he finds his voice again, "do you still want to get back to work right away?"

"Can you stop here for a while?"

"A couple of days, yes."

"Then in a couple of days. I haven't forgiven you completely yet, you know."

"I'll make something up," Boris stretches on the bed with a smirk.

"I can’t wait."

When Valery gets up, there’s a slight limp in his gait, but Boris's guilt is softened by Valery's delighted face as he sits on the chair.


	15. 15

Having recovered from the pneumonia, Valery returns to his usual life, but for Boris the worries never seem to end: in less than two years, another disaster will hit the Soviet Union, the earthquake in the Spitak region.

In his old timeline he saw the death and the destruction brought by the earthquake, he can’t turn his head just because now he’s with the person he loves and is happy, he isn’t that kind of man, and could no longer look at himself in the mirror if he ignores the problem.

But he knows that an earthquake is something completely different from a nuclear accident, he can’t prevent it from happening and really doesn’t know what to do.

He could warn the population a few days before, but probably no one would believe him until the earthquake strikes, and then it would be too late.

Taking as excuse the construction of an oil pipeline in the region, Boris summons some geologists to his office to discuss seismic hazard prevention: he wants to know if there is a way to predict where and when an earthquake will strike.

The negative answer of all the scientists infuriates him; he tosses them out of his office and looks for someone more competent.

When Valery arrives at his apartment and finds him bent over the table to examine the curriculum of the scientists, he slips his arms around Boris’ neck and kisses his temple.

"Who are they?"

"Potential candidates for a work assignment."

"Oh, must I be jealous? Will you betray me with a handsome young geologist? After all, this is how we met," Valery jokes, but his words don’t reach Boris, who continues to leaf through the documents with a serious and concerned face.

"Hey love, are you okay?" He asks then, resting his lips on Boris’ neck.

Boris takes off his reading glasses and ruffles Valery’s hair.

"Sorry, I was lost in thought."

"It looks like a very complicated assignment."

"More than anything else it’s difficult to find someone who isn’t a massive incompetent!" He bursts out, crumpling up yet another curriculum and throwing it into the stove, "what a bunch of useless morons!"

"Oh dear," Valery raises an eyebrow, "I'm glad I'm not the target of your anger."

Boris growls, but when Valery kisses him again under his ear, he softens.

"What is this job about?"

"I need a system that let me know where and when an earthquake will strike, to avoid damages to the State's infrastructure and to save the people."

Valery pauses and straightens up, takes off his glasses and cleans them in his tie, a gesture he makes to take courage when he has to say something thorny, that Boris wouldn't like.

"What?" Boris barks.

"Boris, what you demand from these scientists is impossible."

"This is just your opinion. I need a solution and I'll find it!"

"No Boris, science says it," Valery replies, as diplomatically as possible, "we know that there are areas more prone to earthquakes, but we can’t predict exactly the day and time of an earthquake."

"So what do we do, we just wait to be crushed in our houses by the fury of the elements?"

"No, of course,” Valery cards a hand through his silver hair, “we can improve the safety of buildings and do drills so that the population knows how to behave, but you have to understand this, love: when the earth shakes, a volcano erupts, or there is a tsunami, mankind is simply powerless. When it happens, the planet shows who is in charge, and it’s infinitely bigger and more powerful than us, you can’t win against it."

Boris clenches his jaw stubbornly: "We'll see."

All the people he talks with say the same thing to him, that it’s not possible to predict the earthquakes, but Boris doesn’t care: he believes he can do it this time, relying on his knowledge.

However, reality gives him a hard lesson: a devastating earthquake doesn’t hit Armenia in December 1988, but Georgia in September 1987.

Boris feels betrayed: this is a huge difference compared to his timeline, a painful difference, a difference that causes victims and suffering, and he could do nothing to prevent it.

"You told me," he murmurs the evening of the earthquake, as he watches the news sitting next to Valery, "you can't win against the planet."

"I wish I was wrong," Valery sighs, resting his head on Boris’ shoulder.

Boris is still an inconsequential man, it was just an illusion to think of not being useless anymore.

However, this will not prevent him from doing what he can: he is a stubborn and impossible Ukrainian, as Valery says him when they fight.

Initially Gorbachev doesn’t ask Boris to manage the emergency, he volunteers, and the central committee is very happy that someone wants to take the responsibility for that disaster.

Boris asks that General Tarakanov comes with him, because he already knows Nikolai's efficiency and skill. He’s the right man, in his old timeline they had worked well together in Chernobyl, and he’s certain that it will be the same here.

"I have to go, I have to help those people," Boris tells Valery the night before he leaves.

Valery nods without saying anything: he understands. He looks at him proudly from behind his thick glasses.

"I'll be away for several months and I don't think I'll be able to contact you."

Valery touches his lips with his: "I’m here."

_"I'll be here when you come back, I'll be here when you need to think of me, I'm here and I'll always be here."_

Boris was right: Valery is his rock.

The situation in Georgia is as desperate as it was in Armenia: the region is impervious, the rescuers are struggling to reach each remote village, the hospitals of the region have collapsed like the other buildings, there’s shortage of food and water, it’s cold, it always rains and the snow will arrive soon.

The population is exasperated and feels abandoned, due to the slowness of the rescue and, after the first few days, there are looting and violent riots.

From Moscow comes the order to repress them with an iron hand, Boris asks Tarakanov to be sensible.

"Are you asking me to pretend nothing happened? I can't: there have been riots, we have to stop them, or we can't work either."

"I ask you for clemency, Nikolai: these people have lost everything, they are hungry and cold, they act like desperate because they’re desperate."

The repression is inevitable, but it’s less hard than it could have be.

Boris coordinates the work during the day, urges the rescuers, shouts when it’s needed, and at night he spends endless hours on the phone with Moscow, to convince them that they need more men, more means, more aid. He demands that the central committee ask at least for the collaboration of the countries on this side of the Iron Curtain. 

He’s stubborn, implacable, harsh, and finally he obtains what he wants.

Indeed, when some Western countries offer food, medicines and clothes for the survivors of the earthquake, the offer is not refused.

It's little more than a plaster on a gunshot wound, but Boris learned in those months that it's better than nothing.

One evening, Tarakanov puts a glass of vodka in front of him and sits down next to him.

"You know, every once in a while you could use that phone to call home. It would do you good," he adds, worried about how much Shcherbina is spending himself to help the people: he’s a good man and Tarakanov doesn’t want him to lose his health because of what happened.

Boris knows that their only phone line is controlled, like their correspondence, to avoid the spread of news that the State wants to keep confidential, and the last thing he needs is to bring the KGB's attention on him and Valery again, so he shakes his head.

"I don't have anyone at home," he lies, gobbling his vodka.

Being apart from Valery is hard, especially now that he’s surrounded by a desperation that he hoped he would never see again, but at night, when he finally lies down and closes his eyes, the thought of Valery waiting for him at home is a balm for his soul, and helps him to go on every day.

Boris returns to Moscow in March 1988, during a gray and rainy spring. He and Tarakanov did everything they could, they saved lives and brought comfort, but the reconstruction has yet to start and who knows when it will end.

It’s half a victory (or a defeat).

Probably it's just life.

Valery waits for him at the airport, and hugs him firmly in the crowd, infringing all their rules, but Boris is too tired to care, and hugs him back, leaning heavily on him. Only at the end he pats Valery on the back, to save the appearance of two comrades and friends who haven't seen each other in a while.

"Come to my place tonight," Valery whispers to him, before letting him go to the Kremlin, where Boris and Tarakanov have a meeting.

Boris silently nods before reaching the General, waiting for him in the car.

That evening, Valery's lips are on his as soon as the door closes behind them, soft and sweet, exactly as Boris remembered them.

"My Borja..."

"Valera..." Boris' hands cards through his hair as he rests his forehead against Valery’s.

Even Ogon is affectionate with him, after the long absence: she rubs on his legs and meows looking for attention. Boris lifts her from the floor and caresses the soft tawny fur.

"You've lost weight," Valery observes as they dine, "are you okay?"

Boris wears his best confident smile, "Of course I'm fine," but Valery doesn't seem convinced and suddenly looks deeply unhappy. He gets up and goes in front of Boris, hugging him, "Don't do it, don't pretend to be okay to protect me."

Boris lets himself go against him and releases a heavy sigh.

"It was horrible," he confesses.

Valery kisses his hair, "I can't even imagine how it was."

"I'm tired, Valera."

It’s not like him to be plaintive and petulant, but he’s realizing only now, in Valery’s arms, how heavy was that mission for him, physically and emotionally, even if in this timeline he faced it in good health.

Valery's hand moves slowly through his hair, and the tiredness, the pain, the anger he has felt, seem suddenly lighter. Thinking of Valery helped him a lot, but being in his arms again is something else.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too, Borja," Valery murmurs, bending over him as if to shield him from the whole world, "Come on, let's go to bed."

When Boris comes out of the bathroom, naked, Valery is already under the covers, wearing a military green flannel pajamas. Boris smiles: he missed terribly even his lack of taste in clothing.

"Undress," he whispers, unbuttoning Valery’s jacket.

Valery licks his lips as he comply: "Yes, of course. I just didn't think you wanted to..."

"No, I just want to feel you..." Boris has a visceral need to feel Valery’s skin and his warmth.

Valery looks down and smiles, flattered.

"Are you surprised that I need my man?"

"It's always nice to hear you say it."

Boris breathes in Valery’s scent, caresses his back, hugs him, and kisses his forehead, his flaccid penis against Valery's, their legs intertwined under the covers.

Valery looks at him with that adoring and dreamy gaze he always has when he doesn't wear his glasses.

"What are you thinking?" Valery asks, stroking Boris’ arms.

"I’m thinking of you, of what my life would be like if you weren't here. I would have returned to an empty house..."

Valery interrupts him by kissing him gently on the lips.

"A useless intellectual exercise: I’m here."

And after this hard ordeal, life resumes as it was before.

26 April 1988

Thump

Thump

Thump

Three strong knocks, whose sinister echo reverberates on the walls of his bedroom, awakens Boris with a start.

He lifts his head, groggy, and strains his ear. Maybe he just imagined it.

Thump

Thump

Thump

The knocks are repeated again, and there is something scary in their sound, something that makes Boris think of death, that makes him want to hide under the covers, like a child who’s afraid of a thunderstorm, and pretend not to have heard them.

Thump

Thump

Thump

However, whoever is knocking, will not stop until he goes to open.

Boris puts his feet on the rug and only then realizes that he’s in his elegant apartment in the center of Moscow.

Something is not right: the night before he stopped at Valery's house.

Thump

Thump

Thump

The eerie knocks don’t stop, Boris has to open the door, even if he doesn't want to, even if a part of his brain is shouting at him not to do it. He crosses the living room, but then he freezes, a cry of terror that can’t leave his mouth.

The upholstery is beige and not blue.

It should be blue, and he should be at Valery's place.

He closes his eyes, but when he opens them again the upholstery is still beige.

_"You know what it means. You know where the upholstery was beige."_

"No, no..." he sobs.

Thump

Thump

Thump

Boris falls to his knees beside the phone and dials Valery's number with trembling hands, but no one answers.

"Valera, please, please, pick up the phone," he whispers feverishly, but it's useless.

The line is dead, dead like...

Thump

Thump

Thump

Now Boris wants to run away screaming, but he should go through the front door.

He can't do anything but open it.

A man in a suit and tie is standing in front of him, but Boris can't see his face, because the hall is immersed in a pitch-thick darkness.

"Who are you?" Boris thunders, but his voice lacks the usual imperiousness.

"Come, comrade Shcherbina, we have to go."

"To where?"

"Come, they’re waiting you."

"Where are we going?" Boris repeats again, as they’re in the car.

When did they get in the car? He didn't agree to go anywhere.

"I want to go back!" He shouts, but the driver (the same man who came to pick him up?) ignores his order.

"This isn’t possible: they are waiting you for the identification," he says.

The car stops in front of a gray concrete and cubic-shaped building, without windows, with a single opening, beyond which lurks the same impenetrable darkness of the corridor of his house.

"We have arrived, comrade Shcherbina."

"Where we are?"

"You must go, you must proceed with the identification."

"The identification of whom?"

"You know, comrade."

"No, I don't know, I don't know anything," Boris shouts, now in a panic, "Take me home."

"The State doesn’t allow it. Get out."

Boris looks at the entrance of the building, black and terrible.

"No!" He repeats, but the next moment he’s walking along a tiled corridor, at the end of which there is another door.

He doesn’t want to enter, but his body doesn’t obey his mind, and his hand opens the door: he’s like a puppet steered by invisible threads.

In the room there is only a metal table, illuminated by a dingy neon, on which lies a body covered with a sheet.

"No!"

"The State was waiting for you, comrade. You’re late."

A shadow comes off the wall and advances towards him from the other side of the table.

It's Charkov.

The usual, imperturbable smile hovers on his face as he watches Boris through his glasses.

"Identify the body, comrade Shcherbina."

"No, I can’t…"

"You must, the State demands you to do it. Identify the body, comrade."

"No…"

"You’ll do it, you’ll identify the enemy of the State on this table, because this is what you are, comrade, a faithful servant of Soviet socialism."

Boris shakes his head, but Charkov insists, implacable.

"Raise the sheet, comrade Shcherbina!" He orders aloud, and Boris' hands move against his will, they grasp the edge of the white sheet and move it away slowly, revealing sparse reddish hair, a freckled forehead marked by deep wrinkles and two glassy, dead and wide open eyes.

Valera, his love, his life.

Boris feels his heart pierced by a thousand blades, he just want to close his eyes, collapse on the cold floor and scream until his lungs burst, but his legs don’t move.

"You would deserve the same fate, Shcherbina," Charkov hisses, poisonous, "for considering this man more important than your duty toward the Kremlin, but this is a far worse punishment for you: staying here, surviving the object of your adoration, alone until the end of your pathetic days."

Now Boris knows: he’s back in his old timeline, where the upholstery is beige, where Valery has hanged himself and died, where he will follow him shortly, weak and sick.

He raises his hand, stroking Valery's now cold face.

"Valera, my Valera..."

"I must say that I was impressed: time-travels, alternate universes, the accident that didn’t happen... your flight of fancy surprised me." Meanwhile, Charkov continues to talk amiably, as if he were talking about sports.

A fantasy? Did he imagine everything, then? Paulie, the reality where Valery is alive, where they love each other...

"What a bizarre thing brain tumors are, right, comrade?" Charkov continues, "they create such realistic delusions."

No, it can't be! It's not fair!

Finally Boris regains control of his body and uses it to lash out at Charkov, with an animalistic scream of anger and pain; he squeezes his hands around his neck with brute force, until he hears the creaking of the hyoid bone.

At that point, however, Charkov and the room vanish, swallowed up by the darkness.

"Boris! Can you hear me?"

Valery is bent over him and, judging by his worried face, he has been calling him for a long time.

He’s in the scientist's apartment, in the bed where they fell asleep a few hours before.

"Val..."

Valery puts two fingers on his carotid artery, and tightens his lips in a grimace.

"Right, I’m calling a doctor."

He stands up, but Boris' survival instinct kicks in, and he grabs Valery’s wrist firmly.

"You can't, you know."

They couldn’t fabricate a credible excuse to justify Boris' presence in another man's bed.

"Boris, your heartbeats are too fast!"

Boris sits up, resting his feet on the floor, and pulls Valery to himself; he lifts his vest, pushes his face against his belly, breathing deeply, and squeezes his hips.

"Boris..." Valery strokes gently his silver hair, still troubled by what happened. His face twists in a grimace of pain, because Boris's hands are clawing at his hips too hard, but he doesn't complain, because he understands that Boris needs this.

"Just give me a minute," he reassures Valery.

Boris closes his eyes, concentrating on the warmth of Valery's skin, slightly sweaty, sour under his tongue, on his hair that tickles his face, on the funny noises that his stomach is making, on the rolls of fat on his hips, on the concreteness of his presence.

It was just a damn nightmare; the night before he tried not to think that this is the day when, in his old timeline, Valery committed suicide, but his brain played a trick on him, making him live again his greatest pain.

Valery's hand moves over his neck, massaging it. Boris' face has regained its natural colour and even his breathing is slower, but his shoulders are still tensed. He wonders what happened to him, but he waits for Boris to speak. He still wants to call a doctor, or take him to the hospital, but understands the concerns of his partner.

"How do you feel?"

Boris kisses his navel, breathes again the smell of his skin, then looks up at him: Valery is very worried.

"Better. I'm sorry I scared you."

Valery sits astride him and hugs him. "Don't even say it."

Boris's arms surround his back, and he cradles Valery for a long time, until the last vestiges of the nightmare dissolve.

"What time is it?"

"It's still the dead of the night."

Boris drags Valery with him under the covers.

"Are you sure you don't want to see a doctor?"

"No, I'm fine now. I just had a nightmare," he explains.

"It seemed more than a nightmare to me: I couldn't wake you up."

"It was terrifying, I was so scared..."

With any other person Boris would be ashamed to show his weaknesses, but not with Valery. He can show every aspect of himself to Valery, that’s the strongest point of their relationship.

"What happened in your nightmare?"

"You committed suicide and I had to identify your body."

"Good heavens, I'm sorry!"

It's so funny that Valery apologizes for something that happened in his dream, that Boris lets out a tremulous chuckle.

"And why had I committed suicide? Did you know in the nightmare?"

Valery's gentle fingers massage his shoulder, and Boris feels the need to spill everything out: if he keeps it inside himself, he fears that the nightmare will recur again.

"Chernobyl. The accident happened and the State covered up the reasons of the explosion, while you kept shouting to everyone the truth, a truth that nobody wanted to hear. The KGB took you away and cancelled you from the history, you could no longer have contact and talk to anyone."

"Not even with you?"

"No. And I wasn't brave enough to challenge them."

Valery's fingers brush his cheek, and he licks his lips, hesitating, as if he’s deciding what to say.

"If you went against the party, I suppose they would have done the same to you, or worse. And if the myself from your nightmare is just a little like me, he would never have allowed it."

"But you were sick, depressed and alone. And in the end you couldn't bear it anymore."

Valery tenderly kisses the wrinkles around his eyes: "Don't worry, Borja, it won't happen here: I'm healthy, happy and I'm not alone."

"Call in sick tomorrow morning," Boris whispers in the dark, drawing doodles on Valery’s back with his fingers, "stay with me."

"Of course I stay," Valery says, nuzzling his nose against Boris chest.

November 1988

The annual economic report on the state of economy of the Soviet Union lies on Boris's desk, while he stands at the window and looks out.

He isn’t a smoker, but right now he would like to have nicotine to calm down his anxiety.

Just like it happened in his old timeline, Gorbachev carries out his glasnost and perestroika politics also here.

The results don't look better. Nothing particularly worrying for now, but the general situation isn’t good, Gorbachev's move isn’t producing the desired results, and Boris doesn’t believe that the situation will change.

There is discontent, from many parts, even if for now it waits quietly in the shadows.

Maybe it simply can't work, not like this.

Maybe it's time to be not only cautious, but also far-sighted.

Although he didn't like them, Boris never forgot Paulie's words about his country:

_"The Soviet Union was an illiberal regime, and suffered the fate of all the illiberal regimes in human history: it fell."_

Likewise, Boris didn’t forget the frightened look on Ignatenko face, when he realized that he bumped into a party man.

Boris is a son of the October Revolution, he has known no other government than that, and from his point of view it’s right, but the rulers shouldn’t frighten the people they rule.

When it happens, it's not a good sign.

Boris has some saving. Not a fortune, but especially after the divorce he had little expense to deal with; he thinks it’s the same also for Valery, who has always led a frugal life.

Furthermore, Boris knows some people in the world of oil and fuels, due to his office: he thinks the time has come to exploit them, claim some favours done in the past, and make new investments. Having a parachute in case the situation would fall, in short.

"Do you have any savings?" He asks Valery one day while they’re at the restaurant for lunch.

"Yes, why?"

"Do you trust me?"

"What kind of question is it?" Valery replies, almost offended, wiping his mouth on the napkin, "you know I trust you with all of myself. What are you thinking about?"

"A retirement plan."

Even Valery, who lives in his own world and doesn’t care about economics or politics, has understood that something isn’t right out there, because he nods decisively, supporting his idea: "Sounds like an excellent plan. Only, you take care of it, I don't understand this stuff very much."

"There is no need for you to say it," Boris reproaches him, as he smiles indulgently, "I can tell by the number of times you forget to pay your electricity bill."


	16. 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: brief desciption of the death of a pet in this chapter. Nothing explicit, just sad.

Moscow, August 2nd, 1989

From now on it’s terra incognita for Boris.

It’s the date when, in his old timeline, he entered Paulie's time machine.

He doesn't know what happened there, once he left, he doesn't know what will happen here, from today onwards.

Whatever advantage he had, big or small, is over, and this terrifies him. Rationally, he knows that it’s stupid: no man has the privilege of knowing the future, but the idea of not being able to foresee the dangers that could fall on him or Valery keeps him paralyzed in bed, hugging his man.

"Boris? It's late, we have to get up."

Valery tries to break free, but Boris tightens his grip on him.

"Call in sick to work. Stay with me."

"Of course I stay," Valery rubs his nose on Boris’ neck, "What is it?"

"Nothing, it's just..."

"A day like that?"

"Yes, a day like that."

Valery’s hand slips under the elastic of his pajamas, while a little smirk lifts the corner of his mouth.

"I'm sure we'll find something to do even in a day like that."

After all, Boris thinks as he grabs Valery's hair and guides his head southward, it doesn't start badly, this journey to the unknown.

  
  


Moscow, November 9th, 1989

Valery squeezes Boris' hand as they sit in front of the TV in his apartment, and the news broadcasts the images of the fall of the Berlin wall.

From the German city come images of jubilation, of cheering people sitting astride the wall that is knocked down with pickaxes, of families and friends finally reunited.

These images remember very closely the scenes of the end of the war, when the population celebrated the ousting of the enemy.

The symbol of an ideology collapses in a few hours, and Boris would lie if he said he doesn’t feel a bit lost: it really looks like the beginning of the end of the world as he knew it, but he's not entirely surprised, the wind has changed, and not from today.

Valery looks at him sideways, a little frightened too.

"We’ll be fine," Boris promises solemnly.

"I know, but I'm glad you thought of a retirement plan."

The phone rings. Without much surprise it’s the Kremlin: the leaders of the central committee have called an emergency meeting.

"I’ll be there as soon as possible," Boris assures, then hangs up.

Valery gets up and wears his coat, "I suppose I won't see you for a few days."

"I think so."

"Call me." Valery kisses him and then leaves, letting Boris get ready.

Boris wears his best suit, polishes his shoes and carefully fixes his tie: the suit has always been an integral part of his authority, and something tells him he will need it.

The atmosphere has never been so tense in the meeting room.

Gorbachev shows to be calm and unfazed, but the feeling isn’t shared by everyone: there are people who whisper, not even too softly, that his reforms have triggered the wave of democracy that hit the Berlin wall.

Even after they have sat down and the meeting begins, the murmur doesn’t cease, there are shaking heads, taut faces, and even new faces around the table, and Boris doesn’t know them enough to understand if they are friends or foes.

The most intransigent wing of the party calls for repression with an iron fist, someone want tanks and soldiers in Berlin: they can’t show the world any weakness.

Tarakanov and other generals are against it: there would be a massacre of civilians and the protest would return stronger than before.

Eventually a soft course of action prevails.

Charkov and other party men are furious: undoubtedly the decision appears as an offense to the statecraft in their eyes, they will not stand by and watch.

Boris looks up at Nikolai and then quickly move his eyes to the KGB man.

Nikolai nods: he understands.

In the following days the atmosphere remains tense in the Kremlin, and there are unusual clusters of people in the corridors, constantly whispering and glaring.

Boris supports the decision of the general secretary, but tries to stay away from the political quarrel, focused on the tasks of his office. He has long learned that he can’t change the world or the course of history, because he’s only a man; if the Soviet Union is doomed to fall, then it will fall: it’s not his job to save the State or change it, that is something that the old Shcherbina would have tried to do, but he’s no longer that man.

  
  


Moscow, August 22nd, 1990

It's a bathroom.

No, maybe a kitchen.

Of a school, but now everything is in ruins.

The tiled floor produces an unpleasant sound under his shoes, and a nauseating smell of bleach and cauliflower stagnates in the air.

Valery looks around, scared: he doesn't know where he is and he doesn't remember how he got there, but he doesn't like that room.

He wants to leave, but the room has no doors or windows, just a sink in the corner, whose faucet drips incessantly, a drain on the floor, and a small seat.

Valery starts to punch a wall: "Can anyone hear me? I want to get out!” He shouts, feeling the panic rising inside himself.

To his right, the light changes and, looking in that direction, he sees that a window closed by a iron grating has appeared on the wall.

Then he’s dreaming, there is no reason to be so terrified, he tells a frightened himself as he walks to the window.

The window overlooks a courtyard: in one corner there is a plaster statue, an ugly imitation of the American Mickey Mouse, then he sees the nape of a man sitting on a bench.

His back and his gray hair are unmistakable.

"Boris!" He exclaims relieved, and knocks on the glass, "Boris, help me out!"

But Boris doesn’t turn around, he is bent over himself, a defeated and hopeless man.

Valery knocks harder, contemplating the idea of breaking the glass with a punch to reach Boris.

"Boris, I'm here!"

"He can't hear you, he's on the other side."

Boris’ husky voice, behind him, makes him turn around: this time a door has appeared in the wall, and, beyond that, Valery sees a dark bedroom and a bed, on which Boris is sitting, with lot of pillows behind his back. His face shows signs of a deeply suffering, and he is holding a bloodstained handkerchief in his hand.

"Boris, are you hurt?" 

He doesn't care if it's just a dream, Valery moves toward him, but the imperious voice of the Ukrainian stops him.

"No, you can't cross that threshold."

"Why?"

"Because I’m on the other side, too, while you won't be here for many more years," Boris' face relaxes in a gentle smile, "thankfully."

"What is this place?"

Valery doesn’t have the impression that he’s dreaming, because, if that were the case, he would have already ordered to his mind to wake him up: he can’t stand the sight of dying Boris, even if it's just an illusion.

"You can call it a borderland, that appears on particular dates. However you don’t need to worry: neither you nor Boris will see this place again."

Valery tilts his head to one side, "You are Boris."

That dream, or illusion, or whatever it is, is just nonsensical.

"I'm Boris," confirms the Ukrainian lying in the bed, "one of the many."

"I don’t understand…"

"My naive idiot," Boris sighs, before coughing violently into the handkerchief.

"Answer me!" Valery slams his fist on the door frame, frustrated, but doesn’t dare to disobey Boris and cross the threshold: he has a feeling that it wouldn’t be a good idea.

"Valerka, you know."

"No."

"Yes, inside yourself you know: once he told you about it."

Confused fragments of a drunken conversation come to Valery's mind, who frowns in an attempt to remember more.

"It's time," Boris pants, and those few words cost him a great effort, "go now, go back to him."

"No! I want to stay with you!"

"You can't do anything for me anymore. Go, Valera, go back to that stubborn Ukrainian: he needs you."

The bluish tiles of the room come off the wall one by one and fall to the ground, shattering into a thousand pieces, and the underlying plaster disintegrates like dust.

Valery moves in that direction because somehow he knows that his home is there, but the idea of leaving this dying and lonely Boris is heartbreaking.

"Borja..."

"Go," he encourages him one more time, "I’m happy you are well, and it was beautiful to see you one last time."

It’s Tuman's tail that tickles his arm to wake him up.

He opens his eyes, still confused, and rubs his temples: was it just a dream?

Yet he feels a lump in his throat, and those fragments of memories don't want to leave his mind.

He takes a shower to clear his head, feeds the cats and then dresses, but instead of going to work, half an hour later he’s knocking at the door of Boris' apartment.

It’s a surprise visit and Boris will probably get angry because it’s against their rules, but Valery is upset and needs to see him, to be sure that Boris is there for real, and not in a strange room in a borderland, as much as it sounds absurd.

Boris is still in his dressing gown when he opens the door with the newspaper in his hand.

"Valery, did something happen?"

Valery closes the door behind him, stands on tiptoe, wraps his arms around his neck and kisses him, rubbing his lips insistently over his until Boris opens his mouth, caressing his tongue languidly.

Boris' arms surround his back and move in a reassuring caress.

It's intimate, sweet, it's exactly what Valery needs.

God, he loves him so much.

"Hey," Boris murmurs, his voice more hoarse than usual when their lips part with a soft wet sound.

"Good morning," Valery whispers, not knowing what else to say, caressing the V of skin left uncovered by the robe.

"After a kiss like this, it is for sure," Boris chuckles, moving his lips to his neck, "but what is it?"

"Nothing, it's just..."

"A day like that?"

"Definitely."

Boris' hands squeeze playfully his buttocks, "Can I distract you from your thoughts?"

"Yes, please."

When Valery gets up, the springs of the bed creak loudly, but Boris doesn’t wake up and continues to snore slightly with his mouth open: Valery has worn him out with his need for reassurance, insistent, demanding, feverish.

He covers Boris with the sheet and closes the bedroom door behind him; he touches the books in the living room library with his fingers, and hesitates a moment before taking a scrapbook.

He sits down in an armchair and leafs through it: there are some photos of Boris and his family, and newspaper articles talking about him. It’s not vanity... okay, maybe yes, in part: Boris is very proud of his role in the party and his work, but he has the right to be.

Yet, the man in the photos is slightly different from the man with whom Valery has just made love: in the photos Shcherbina has the eyes and the face of an authoritative man, polite but detached, while the Boris Valery knows is softer.

Did he, a clumsy nuclear physicist, change him?

And yet he has the impression that Boris' eyes have always been sweet, from the first moment they met.

He closes the scrapbook, resting it on his knees.

He remembers some more confused fragments of that conversation, when he got drunk after he came back from Vienna. He remembers Boris sitting at the foot of the sofa, and then in bed, stroking his hair and trying to dispel his anguish.

_ "You’ll always choose the truth, Valera..." _

_ "I know because I come from another place, a place where..." _

He also remembers Khomyuk's distrust of Boris, expressed several times when they worked together in the commission:  _ "Don’t you really find anything strange about comrade Shcherbina? Anything out of place?" _

He puts the scrapbook back in place and returns to the bedroom: Noch is on the bed next to Boris, who is still asleep, and meows softly when he sees Valery.

Valery puts a finger to his lips, asking him to be silent, and then he lies down next to Boris, bringing his hands under his cheek and his knees to his chest.

He looks at Boris, and experiences the same overwhelming wave of affection that he felt the first time they slept together.

His life can be divided in two: before Boris and after Boris, and the life with Boris is infinitely better.

Before, in his life there was no one who spoke his name, Valera, so gently, who listened to him when he needed to vent, who shared the pages of the newspaper with him.

There were only work, research, and laboratory test tubes. Reassuring, in a sense, but cold and sterile.

Now Valery can't even imagine going back to his life as it was before, without Boris, and he feels tears pinch his eyes if only he tries to think to a world where Boris dies in solitude.

He decides that he doesn't care about his dreams and memories, or Khomyuk's doubts, but only that Boris is in his life.

How he got there, or where he comes from is really a secondary issue.

  
  


Moscow, December 18th, 1990

It's a hell of a day for Boris, the last of a long string of crappy days: there was a big mess in his department, he shouted and was shouted at, quarreled with everyone, and fired two people.

He’s furious, his nerves are raw, and he’s and is about to explode, so much so that his assistants don't come close to his office.

When Tatyana tells him that Professor Legasov is on the phone for him, he’s tempted not to answer. Not because he and Valery had a fight, but because he doesn't want to fight: just a small pretext would be enough to make it happen, and he doesn’t want Valery to pay for his fury.

"He says it's urgent," Tatyana adds.

"Alright, then."

"Boris..." Valery's voice is heartbroken, and this makes him forget his anger.

"What happened?"

"Ogon died a little while ago."

In the past few days the cat showed signs of not feeling well: she slept a lot and almost didn't eat anymore; Valery had taken her to the vet, who had given her a vitamin injection, but had also warned him that she was old by now, and that he should have prepared for the worst.

Valery had ignored his words, cradling himself in the hope that Ogon could recover.

_ "After all, cats have seven lives," _ he said. 

Boris didn’t share his optimism, but he hadn’t had the heart to contradict him.

"I'm sorry Valera. How are you?"

Ogon isn’t the first Valery’s cat to die, but Boris knows that the red cat was special and important, she had been with him for fourteen years, and before he entered his life, it was she who kept him company.

"Can you come here?" Valery's voice is dangerously shaky, "I would like to bury her, but I don't know where, and alone I don't..."

Boris looks at the pile of papers on his desk: they’re all to be reviewed as soon as possible, and he has another meeting in the afternoon. He had no plans to meet Valery in the coming days, because he doesn’t have the time: since the political situation has changed, his working schedule has become hellish.

"Boris?"

Boris swears silently: he wouldn't want to disappoint Valery, but he can't move from his office right now.

"I'll do my best," he promises anyway.

To make things worse, now he feels guilty for not being close to Valery, and at the end of the afternoon meeting (where he screams and gets more and more angry) he closes himself in his office to drink, hoping to calm down and leave that horrible day behind himself.

It's late, very late when he parks his car under Valery's building, and this makes him feel even more guilty and angry: Valery told him he needed him, and he wasn’t there.

The situation doesn’t improve when he opens the door and finds Valery sitting at the table, drinking; Boris can't even meet his eyes, fearing to read resentment or a veiled accusation.

He doesn't think he can stand it, not today.

Valery says nothing, lights a cigarette and throws the lighter on the table, but the air is full of negativity.

Boris doesn't know what to say to him, probably nothing would console him now, but a few years earlier he promised Valery that he would stop him if he drank too much: he can do that at least.

He tightens his fingers around the neck of the vodka bottle, but Valery holds it tightly.

It’s like that, then.

Valery is looking for a fight.

"I didn’t finish drinking," Valery hisses.

"Yes, you are: you know how it ends when you drink too much. Let it go."

"No."

"Valerka, you asked me, remember?"

"You don't have the right to do it after you left me alone today. I had to bury Ogon all by myself, so you have no right to tell me anything!"

Boris bites his tongue, literally, because he’s about to scream at Valery to stop being so fucking selfish, that he too had a bad day, he has had only bad days for months.

But he understands that Valery is hurt, and that pain generates rage, a rage that awaits only an excuse to explode.

He knows that sour feeling well, that senseless need to smash something and scream only to forget the pain.

The tension needs to be dissipated, not further exacerbated.

"I'm sorry for Ogon, Valera, I’m sincere. I wish I was there for you."

It works.

Valery lowers his eyes and blushes, embarrassed by his childish reaction, and releases the grip on the bottle.

"Sorry, I don't know what came over me. It's just that it was horrible to see her die and not be able to do anything."

"I know."

They remain silent: Boris standing with the bottle in his hand and Valery sitting, miserable and still lost in his thoughts, until he takes off his glasses and sighs heavily: "I thought about this all day: I... I don't want to see you die, I couldn't bear it, it's too hard. I want to die first."

When the crisis seemed averted, here is the spark that ignites the fuse, the unpredictable variable, the words that Boris can’t accept and that, combined with tiredness and alcohol, make him explode.

He loses his mind and throws the bottle of vodka against the wall.

Valery jerks his head up, frightened by his rash reaction.

"Boris, what...?"

"Do you think it would be easy for me to live without you?" Boris' voice is an animalistic growl, his eyes are terrible, his teeth bared in an angry grimace.

Valery pales, realizing what he just said, and tries to open his mouth to apologize, but Boris' blind fury is now unstoppable: Valery's words sparked the worst memory of his old timeline in the wrongest day.

“CLOSING YOUR BODY IN A COFFIN, BURYING YOU, BEING ALONE, FEELING THE HEART RIPPED FROM MY CHEST EVERY DAY WITHOUT YOU..."

"Borja, I don't..."

"WHEN YOU DIED, I DIED TOO! HOW CAN YOU SPEAK LIKE THAT?"

Valery gets up and grabs his arm, but Boris struggles free, kicks a chair that blocks his way and leaves, slamming the door, while Valery falls to his knees and covers his mouth with his hands: what has he done?

Boris remembers nothing of his outburst or the journey to his apartment; only when he collapses in the armchair, he is lucid again, and realizes that he has somehow arrived at his place without getting killed along the route: now he isn’t even angry anymore, he just feels drained and tired.

Not even Noch, who climbs into his lap and greets him with a purr makes him feel better.

He absently caresses the soft fur as he rests his head against the backrest: he knows that Valery didn’t really mean those words, it was only the outburst of an extremely sensitive soul that can’t bear to be hurt.

Fuck, he should have stayed calm and comfort him, don't yell at him!

"I messed up," he mutters.

He gets up and walks around the living room, running a hand through his hair: he would like to call Valery and apologize, talk to him in a calm and sensible way, but he’s afraid of losing his temper again and making the situation worse.

Or that Valery doesn't want to talk to him.

He knows he’s behaving like a coward, but he’s afraid to face another confrontation now and discover how much he messed up.

In the end, exhausted, he lies down in bed, knowing that he won't be able to sleep: he hates arguing with Valery, but they’re usually harmless skirmishes, this is the first time they’ve hurt each other for real and it's horrible.

It’s not long before he hears the front door open and close, and Valery’s quick steps that stop on the threshold of his bedroom.

This time it was Valery the brave one, who chased and reached him; without saying a word, Boris sits up and spreads his arm.

Valery is on him in an instant.

"I'm sorry Borja, I'm so sorry, I said something terribly cruel... God, how could I... when you..." His voice trembles, like his body, and breaks without completing the sentence.

"You were shocked by Ogon's death."

"No, I have no excuses, it was so selfish of me..."

Boris' hands slide over Valery’s back and gently massage the tense muscles, while Valery buries his face against his chest.

"A few years ago I was the one who told you that love makes you selfish, don't feel guilty about it."

"So... are we fine?"

Valery's breath is sour with fear, and Boris feels a pang in his heart.

"No, no, I didn't want to scare you."

Valery claws at his arms: "Tell me that we are fine."

Boris kisses his hair to calm him, "We are fine. And I’m the one who must apologize for shouting at you. Whatever I said, I didn't have to, and I didn't mean it, believe me."

Valery raises his face slightly: "What do you mean?"

Boris makes a grimace and sighs: "It's not something I'm proud of, but sometimes, when I get angry, I completely lose my mind and I don't remember what I say. I guess I shouted you terrible abuses, but it was just anger."

"Oh… really, you don’t remember?"

"No. It was a raptus and I will make sure that it never happens again. I love you Valera, you are my life, this is the only truth."

"I know." Valery leans his head again against Boris’ chest, much more relaxed, "But I don't want to argue with you anymore, not like that."

"Me neither."

Valery moves away from him just to take off his shoes and glasses and then he’s back on him, looking for the comfort and the warmth of Boris’ body.

"What did I tell you when I screamed?" Boris asks, gently stroking his ear.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Because then I can apologize properly."

Valery shrugs, rubs his nose on Boris’ neck and rests his lips on the carotid artery; for some reason he seems reluctant to answer.

"You shouted me terrible abuses, that's all," he says eventually, "Can we not talk about it anymore? Neither of this or of death, I just want us to be fine."

"We’re fine, love."

  
  


Moscow, August 19th, 1991

Anyone who, in the following years, asks Boris to tell how it was to live the August putsch, can’t help but be disappointed by his answer: "I was in my office and I stayed there for all four days."

He didn't do anything heroic, anything stupid, he didn't support the putsch, but he didn't even march in the streets.

He did nothing actually.

Boris fell asleep at his desk the night before, leaning on a pile of folders, and lets out a groan of pain when he straightens his back: he's getting too old to work late in the night and fall asleep sitting, but it was inevitable, with the amount of work he has.

Today is the day when Gorbachev will return to Moscow to sign the new treaty of the union.

Boris rubs his eyes to ward off sleep and tiredness, then turns on the radio as he always do, to listen to the morning news, but the voice he hears is that of Janaev, who is reading a manifesto.

What?

A few words are enough to realize that the unthinkable is happening: there is an ongoing attempted putsch to depose Gorbachev.

_ "Charkov," _ he immediately thinks: he and other party men have shown to be increasingly hostile to the general secretary and his decisions, demanding a much harsher political line, and have openly challenged the new treaty.

But Boris would never have thought that they would try to take the power, taking advantage of Gorbachev's absence.

He leaves his office, but at the end of the corridor, where there are the stairs and the elevator, an armed man stops him: he isn’t an officer or a military man, and he has no authority, except that of a loaded gun, "You can't exit the building for now, comrade Shcherbina, please come back to your office. Unless you want to join our cause."

Boris isn’t suicidal, so he suffocates the instinct to knock that man out with a punch, and just shakes his head.

"Comrade Charkov had seen right about you," the man looks at Boris with open disdain, as he beckons him to leave the corridor and turn back. "Later, food and water will be brought to you."

Oh, he’s lucky: they’re so generous.

The radio is still on and broadcasts Janaev's speech again.

"Listen carefully," says the man before closing the door, "that's how the order will be restored."

Left alone, Boris picks up the receiver, knowing that it’s useless: they cut the line.

He takes his head in his hands, shocked and frightened by the sudden rush of events.

If the putsch will be successful, the future doesn’t look rosy for him. The conspirators are unlikely to raise a finger on Gorbachev: despite the hostility toward his reforms, he is still popular among people, and he is too big a name, too important, even internationally, they’ll not dare to do anything to him.

But a pawn like him?

At best they will send him to a hard labor camp, at worst he will vanish without a trace.

He can't even write a farewell letter to Valery, because if someone found it, he too would be in danger.

"Damn..." he hisses.

Other men are brought to the same floor: they are colleagues of Boris from other departments who, like him, in the previous months haven’t sided with the most intransigent wing of the party; they can talk to each other, but they are watched by armed men and they can’t leave.

However, as the hours go by, Boris' anxiety calms down slightly: he doesn’t know what’s happening outside the palace, because their only source of information is the radio and the putsch leaders run it, but if the putsch had succeeded, they would already know their fate.

The day ends, that night Boris tries in vain to doze in an armchair, but every little noise makes him jump, and keeps thinking about Valery and how worried he is.

The next day Janaev openly asks the army to take sides with them.

It’s the most critical moment: if the army is on their side, it will be the end: Boris can't help but pray that Tarakanov and the other generals take the right decision.

Even that day goes by without them being shot in the yard.

Boris decides to take it as a good sign, but the unnerving wait continues.

The rare rumors that manage to filter are confused and contradictory. They aren’t even rumors, only fragments of voices.

Paramilitary groups.

Army.

Factions.

People in the streets.

Resistance.

There are deads.

Yes.

No.

There are clashes.

Yes.

No.

Boris looks out the window, his forehead propped against the cold glass, and he can only think,  _ "Don't be out there, Valery, don't be stupid. This is not for you, you don’t belong to this, keep away, just be safe." _

It is the morning of August 22th, when a soldier, a real one, opens the door of his office and announces that the putsch has failed and his leaders have been arrested: he’s free to go.

Boris feels a violent satisfaction, basking in the idea that, in the end, the wheel turned, and Charkov will have what he deserves.

Who knows, perhaps the putsch failed also in his old timeline, if there was one, and Charkov suffered the same punishment there. To Boris it would be just right, but now he doesn't care about what happened in a world without Valery.

He just cares about this world that has a Valery in it.

Boris lifts the handset of the phone, but the line is still dead.

"I need a line," he barks to the soldier.

"I'm sorry, Deputy Chairman, but they haven't been reactivated yet."

Boris slams the phone down, cursing, and leaves the office: he'll use a public phone, he absolutely must talk to Valery, make sure he's okay, and tell him he's alive.

The soldier updates him on what happened in those days, and says that Gorbachev has also been freed and will arrive in Moscow in the late afternoon, but at that point Boris is already going down the stairs.

A crowd invaded the streets, just outside the square: Boris will have to make his way between them to reach a phone. He moves to the side, looking for a point with fewer people to pass faster, when a voice is heard high and clear above the loud noise.

"BORJA!"

Boris looks at the crowd, trying to figure out where the voice comes from, and then catches a glimpse of Valery, surrounded by other people walking and shouting: he can't describe the relief that washes over him, seeing Valery safe and sound.

The professor pushes aside the people around him with all his strength, he jostles, stumbles, shouts, and jumps forward, finally managing to slip out of the crowd.

Boris runs up to him and Valery throws his arms around his neck, crushing Boris in an almost painful hug.

"Borja, Borja..."

"I'm here Valera, it's over," Boris' hands move slowly over his back to calm him down.

"Don’t ever do that again! You understood me? Never again,” Valery hisses.

"What, getting stuck in a unexpected putsch?" Boris tries to chase away the fear that still grips Valery’s soul with a funny joke, but Valery doesn’t stop crushing him in his embrace, "Yes! I didn't know where you were or what was happening to you, I got mad with worry!” He shakes like a leaf, and Boris can almost feel the fast beating of his heart, even through his clothes.

"Alright then, I won't do that again."

No one is minding them, the crowd is looking in another direction, shouting slogans, they’re like two undistinguished drops of rain in a storm, but in this irrelevance, Boris finds his dimension, and what really matters to him.

"Take me home," he whispers in Valery's ear.

Hours later they’re lying in bed; Valery sleeps with his head resting on Boris’ chest and an arm around his side, reluctant to let him go even in his sleep, while Boris listens to Yeltsin's speech on the radio: he isn’t impressed, to his eyes Yeltsin is just another politician with his own agenda to carry on, but it’s clear that he is the new man who will lead the nation from now on.

After what happened, Gorbachev and his men are already part of the past, even if they don't realize it yet.

He is too, his time in politics has come to an end, and, as he caresses Valery's freckled shoulder with his thumb, Boris knows that he isn’t interested in adjusting to the change underway and playing this new game.

When Valery wakes up, they will talk about it, but in his head the letter of resignation is ready.

Yeltsin is still talking, but Boris turns off the radio and kisses Valery's hair, still slightly sweaty, closing his eyes.

"I have known you for many years, Boris, but I don't understand your decision," Tarakanov says one day, while the two are walking on Red Square, "you could stay, there was room for a man like you, with your experience."

"Tell me Nikolai, in case of the election of a new general secretary, would you think about my name?"

The general hesitates and bites his lower lip; Boris chuckles: "Speak your mind, I won't take offence.”

"No," Tarakanov admits, "but..."

"I've been part of this game for much of my life, I've adapted to changes and new players many times, but that's enough for me. I’m a dinosaur on the road to extinction, and I know that I can’t aspire to anything better than my current department, so it’s time for me to leave the playground."

"It's a shame: isn't there a way to make you change your mind?"

Boris has still before his eyes the image of Valery, who makes his way through the crowd and hugs him, clutching him fiercely, and he shakes his head.

"I see. Can I offer you a tea?"

"Led the way."

A few days later, the communist party's properties are confiscated, including the building where Boris' apartment is.

He will have to leave soon and find a place to stay.

He thinks about moving temporarily to a hotel, but this time Valery doesn’t want to hear it.

"Come and stay with me," he pleads, "after all we've been through, don't we deserve it? I will be cautious, I promise you."

Valery has always wanted it since the beginning of their relationship, and never gave up.

Until a few months earlier, Boris would have said no once more, because it was too risky, but now he thinks about it carefully: he’s outside the politics games, to the society he’s so irrelevant that he no longer has to worry about being followed or spied on, and the KGB has other problems to deal with at the moment.

Besides, if anyone asked questions, they can say that Boris is staying with a friend, waiting to find a new accommodation, since he was thrown out of his house. The circumstances play in their favor this time.

"Okay. I'm going to pack up, then."

"R-really?" Valery asks, almost breathless.

"Yes, really."

Valery literally jumps on him, pushing him against the table, and the move is delayed considerably.

Boris can't carry much with him, a suitcase, maybe two: Valery's apartment is small and already packed with things.

At first, he believes it will be difficult to choose what to keep and what to discard, but in the end his suitcases are almost light: he brings with him Noch, his best suits and shoes, his inseparable coat, and the scrapbook, to remind him that he is an irrelevant man, but not entirely.

But he will leave a lot of stuff behind, he can do without it, it’s not important, not as Valery's luminous smile when he opens the door to his apartment, takes his suitcases from his hands, and stands on tiptoe to kiss him and whisper, "welcome home".

Then the professor turns around and points to the living room with one arm: "I made room for your things."

_ "Making room" _ in Valery's language evidently means,  _ "taking a snow shovel and stacking stuff in a corner in a disordered and precarious pile". _

"Er... more or less," he adds, seeing that Boris raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"I'll take care of it," he replies, taking off his jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeves to his elbows: it's time to introduce Valery to the concept of tidiness.

Boris knows he wasn’t a perfect boss: he made mistakes, he was harsh and demanding, sometimes he terrified the staff of his and other bureaus.

Therefore he expects people to be indifferent when he leave, but the day he takes away his personal effects from his office, many people want to shake his hand; Tatyana even cries leaning against his chest.

"Don't worry, you and your colleagues will be fine."

Boris made sure that none of them, secretary or personal assistant, were fired.

"Comrade..."

"Careful Tanya," he warns gently as he hands her his linen handkerchief, "that word is no longer welcome."

"I don't care, for me you’ll always be comrade Shcherbina," says the woman.

"Keep on running this place."

He smiles at her, picks up his box, returns his badge, and he’s out of that building forever.

He has some regrets, and really doesn’t know what he will do with his life now that he’s unemployed: he worried that he and Valery have some savings, but he never really thought about what to do once he was retired.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't feel a bit ridiculous in the role of the homemaker, waiting for Valery to come back from work in the evening, but then he just had to close his eyes and see Valery's smile every time he opens the door and sees him sitting in the living room, to understand that he can adapt to that role, and spend his days fighting against the chaos that the professor scatters around the apartment.

A couple of quiet months passes, then, one evening Valery returns home, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes downcast. He doesn’t need to say anything, his face is enough for Boris to understand that something serious has happened: when he was a child he had the same face when he broke a glass with the ball and had to tell his father.

"Speak," Boris says, trying to stay calm.

Valery drops into a chair and lights a cigarette: "Now I’m unemployed too."

Boris takes a chair and sits next to him, putting an arm around his shoulders.

"What happened?"

“Today some delegates of the ministry came to the Institute, explaining to us what the new goals of my department should be. Oh, and they also announced a 30% fund cut. I replied that it would be less stupid to try to get to the moon with a Trabant."

"Smooth," Boris murmurs and just can't manage not to lift his lips in an amused smirk as he imagines the scene. However, Valery always expresses himself in abrasive and direct terms with anyone, it seems odd that he was fired just for that.

"And what else?" he encourages him.

"The new director of the Institute was chosen. It's Velikhov, would you believe it?"

Actually, Boris isn’t surprised: Valery's eternal rival isn’t only a nuclear physicist, but also a polished ass-kisser with political and diplomatic skills that Valery will never have: once he understood where the wind was blowing, he openly sided with the new politicians, and made sure to make friends that matter, while Valery... well, it's Valery.

"Each of us was asked to compliment and spend a word for the new director. I said I was appalled for the future of the Institute and the entire nuclear industry of the Soviet Union. You can imagine the rest by yourself,” he concludes, putting out the cigarette.

Yes, you can always count on Valery for a honest and undiplomatic remark.

If both of them are unemployed, it means they have no income. 

It’s still slightly early to use their savings, but Boris thinks he can come up with something.

"I know you're worrying about money, but maybe there's no reason," Valery adds.

Boris looks at him: indeed he doesn’t seem excessively upset that he was thrown out of the Institute where he worked all his life.

"Tell me."

“Well, after the 1986 conference in Vienna, I stayed in touch with some European scientists. With a couple of them in particular we exchanged ideas, wrote joint reports, and I gave my advice for a project of them. In short: if I want, at the IAEA there’s a place for me."

"Do you want it?"

Valery takes his hands, "It's not a decision I can make alone. It doesn't work like that, not anymore."

They have been a couple for years and that is an important decision for the future of their lives, he can’t decide alone what to do.

"You want it," Boris says. And it would be the compensation that Valery deserves.

"Yes," Valery admits, "it would be a prestigious job, but..."

"Then it’s decided: we move."

"Boris..."

"Valera, to me being unemployed here in Moscow or in Vienna makes no difference."

"I don't know if it's the same thing: I speak German quite well, you don't, I'm afraid you'll end up feeling isolated."

Unlike him, Boris is a social person, enjoys big companies, and likes to drink and laugh with his friends. In Vienna he would have nothing of the sort, and perhaps in the long run he would be unhappy.

Boris dispels Valery's concerns with a long kiss: he would like to tell him that he has faced more drastic changes, heck, he has traveled between two timelines, but he opts for a more romantic phrase, that makes Valery smile in an adorable way: "It's enough for me to be with you."

The boxes are ready for the move, these are the last days of work for Valery: he’s completing the handover with the new colleagues who will take his place.

Since he’s about to leave and he doesn't care about anything anymore, Valery no longer has any reason to hold back his tongue (not that he has ever done it, actually) or to maintain a polite facade with his colleagues, so the atmosphere at the Kurchatov Institute is tense and heavy, and part of that negativity is also perceived at home.

The professor was about to leave the apartment, but then Boris blocked him against the refrigerator and undressed him, kneeling in front of him, and Valery threw his plans for the day out of the window.

An hour later they are crushed together on the small sofa, naked; they share a cigarette and the tension has left Valery's shoulders, who now relaxes reclined on Boris’ chest.

"Because of you everyone will be wondering where I am," he murmurs, "Where did comrade Shcherbina, always so loyal to work, go?"

"He also retired," replies Boris, exhaling a mouthful of smoke, "did you prefer to be in your office arguing with Velikhov?"

"Oh no."

The phone rings.

"I bet it's your office," Boris says, putting out the cigarette.

Valery grunts theatrically: "Let it ring."

The only good thing about the change in the top management of the Institute, is that Ulana has been called to work in Moscow: Valery is relieved to leave a competent person to take care of the researches he will have to leave behind.

One afternoon, they sat at the kitchen table in his apartment, and Valery is explaining to Ulana who she can trust, who is a good colleague, and who will try to stab her in the back or to blame her for any issue.

Only when Valery hears the key in the lock, he realizes that he hasn’t told Ulana that Boris is now living there, nor has he warned Boris that he invited Ulana, so he panics when Boris comes in with the shopping bags in hands and lays his eyes on her.

"Comrade Khomyuk, what a surprise."

"Comrade Shcherbina, I was pleased to know that nothing happened to you during the putsch."

"Thanks," Boris puts the bags on the kitchen counter and arranges the shopping, while Valery's brain is still spinning around: why the hell isn’t Boris helping him?

"Ulana, here..."

"Valerka, where are your manners?" Boris puts his hands on his hips in front of the empty table, "You didn't even offer her tea."

"Er... I was going to, but then we started talking about work. Anyway, um..." His gaze shifts frantically from Boris to Ulana, but they seem incredibly cool.

"Forget it, I'll do it, as usual," Boris says, taking the jar of tea, "Do you want to stop here for dinner, comrade? I found sturgeon at the market, and I was thinking to make the ukha."

"Uh yes, gladly!" Ulana answers politely.

Valery looks at Boris as if he has gone mad: he’s acting like if they were married, HE who tormented him for years about the importance of being cautious and hide their relationship! Instead now he doesn’t even use the excuse that they’ve fabricated for these situations.

Then he looks at Ulana in the same way: hasn’t she anything to say, she who has always been so suspicious of Boris? Is he the only person with a minimum of sense in that house? He must say something to save the situation, if it’s still savable.

"Well, Ulana... maybe you know that the party's properties have been confiscated, so Boris found himself homeless."

"Yes, I heard it. An unseemly behaviour."

"Indeed! And he certainly couldn't go and live in a hotel, so I offered to host him in my house, as a friendship gesture, because Boris and I are friends, and so..."

Khomyuk purses her lips and makes a strange face, as if she’s using all her strength to keep from laughing.

Valery frowns, then Boris' hand grabs his hair, pulling his head back and tearing off a startled moan from him, and kisses him.

Not a socialist kiss, or a innocent kiss between friends, but a bold, sensual, toe-curling kiss that makes Valery shiver, and that makes him forget everything, including the presence of his colleague who shouldn't know that the two of them are lovers.

Their lips part with an obscene smack, and Valery remains frozen with his mouth open.

What the…?

"Hm, I begin to understand what you find in him, Valery." Ulana is looking at them with her chin resting on her entwined hands, and is smiling.

What the…?

It seems to be the only thought that his brain can formulate.

"Valera, she has understood years ago what there is between us," Boris says, as he brings the tea.

"What?"

If nothing else this time the thought has reached his mouth.

He's so shocked he doesn’t even feel embarrassed.

Ulana confirms with a nod, "I understood that you liked comrade Shcherbina before you understood it yourself."

Valery turns to Boris: "And you knew that she knew about us?"

"Yes," replies Boris, quietly sipping his tea.

"But... uhm..." Valery’s eyes shift from Boris to Ulana, who are exchanging a knowing smile, and finally he bursts out: "Oh, stop it, you two! I'm naive, okay?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, another nightmare. I swear it's the last one :p
> 
> About the fall of the Berlin wall, I was curious to talk about it, but from a point of view different than mine. When it happened, I was 11yrs old, still a child, so I was struck mostly by a sentiment than by the importance of the historical event, and that sentiment was happiness, it left in the old me the impression that it was a step toward a better future.  
> But, as I was writing this story, I wondered if in Moscow the feelings would have been the same? Or would they have felt lost, on the verge of losing something?
> 
> And about the August Putsch, this story isn't about politics, it's about two souls that find themselves despite everything, but as they live into history, it was an inevitable point to touch. But instead of writing pages and pages of political considearations that nobody (me first) would have found interesting, I preferred to use it as a narrative expedient to open a new chapter in the life of Boris and Valery.


	17. 17

Vienna, January 7th, 1992

Boris is repairing the cupboard when he hears the unmistakable click of Valery's old Zenit.

"Really?" he asks, exasperated. Valery took a lot of pictures of him, since they came to Vienna.

"Really," Valery replies with a big, unapologetic smile: for years he had to keep their relationship secret, without being free to have a memory, a drawing, a photograph. Now that they live here, he wants to make up for lost time.

"Go and take pictures of the cats. I’m not such an interesting model, not while I’m fixing furniture."

"Well, certainly I can't bring to develop the photos I would take when we're in bed."

Boris shakes his head and snorts: "Put that camera down and come here to help me: keep the door straight while I screw the hinges."

Vienna is expensive, much more than Moscow, and therefore they could only buy a small attic flat, whose furniture isn’t new and needs some repair. However, there is a huge old soapstone stove and a beautiful view of the city, and Valery fell in love with it at first sight.

Boris opens and closes the door a couple of times and nods, satisfied: the manual work he did when he was young is useful again.

Valery pulls him by the arm and makes him sit at the table, then he put the camera on it and adjusts the settings for the self-timer.

"Valerka!"

"We still don't have a picture of us in our new flat!"

"We've been here for less than a week."

Valery sits next to Boris and takes his arm, "Look at the camera."

But Boris has eyes only for Valery: his hair are gray around the temples, and his wrinkles are getting deeper, but his eyes are still bright, like his smile.

And he's really living his life with Valery.

Every now and then, the thought still amazes him.

"I love you," Boris says slowly, and Valery turns to look at him, adoringly, the moment the shutter clicks.

(They will not look at the camera in that photograph, they will look into each other's eyes, smiling and in love, and Valery will always keep it as a precious treasure)

"Tomorrow is your first day of work," Boris observes over dinner, "Are you excited?"

Valery snorts and shrugs in a slightly rude gesture, but it’s obvious that he’s thrilled for the new job.

Boris looks at him and smiles: "Then I'd say it's time to give you this."

He gets up, picks up a cardboard box from the bedroom closet, and puts it on the table.

"For you."

"A gift? Boris, you shouldn’t have."

"Just open it."

In the box there is a blue metal lunch box, with little monkeys and palms printed on it; Valery bursts out laughing as he pulls it out, and something inside the lunch box makes a noise.

"Oh, like a matryoshka. Funny, Boris."

Valery opens it, lifts the lid, and freezes.

He blinks slowly, as if he can’t believe his eyes, and exhales a strangled, "oh my god."

Inside, there is a little dark green velvet box, like those of jewels.

Of a particular type of jewel.

At the bottom of his heart, Boris is a romantic man.

"Oh my god," Valery wheezes again, unable to control the tremor in his voice.

"Even if it hasn’t a legal value, it has to me," Boris' voice is a rough caress in the silence of the attic, "actually, it has always been official to me, you know that, but since we have bought a house together, I want us to live honorably."

Valery is still looking at the jewel box, speechless, his eyes wet with emotion, so Boris gets up, takes it and kneels before him, because he's not only romantic, he's also old-fashioned.

Boris chose two red gold wedding rings, because the colour reminds him of Valery's hair, and inside are simply engraved their initials: they need nothing more.

"Can I?" Boris asks, taking the smallest ring.

Valery extends his still shaking hand, and Boris puts the ring on his finger.

"I do," Valery whispers, then takes the other ring and does the same with Boris.

"I do," Boris answers.

Valery slides off the chair, kneels before him and takes his head in his hands, breathing deeply. The nails that sink into Boris’ scalp are a reflection of the deep emotion that Valery is experiencing.

Then Valery rests his face on his shoulder, and Boris pretends not to feel the tears of joy on his shirt.

"Do you have any idea how happy you make me?"

"Good," Boris rests a hand on Valery’s and strokes the ring, "and now, if they assign you a sexy secretary, she will know that someone has arrived before her."

Valery exhales a tremulous chuckle, "Shut up, and take me to bed."

"I thought we already had our honeymoon, several times, but if you insist..."

Valery strokes Boris’ cheek with his thumb, looking at him with boundless affection.

"Don’t you know? Honeymoon never goes out of style."

Hours later, Boris watches Valery sleep: the ring shines on his finger as if that was its place of choice; he bends over him and kisses his hand.

"You too make me incredibly happy, Valera."

However, everyday life is quite boring for Boris, it’s useless to deny it.

His days are long and empty, and the chatter of the people around him is a confused and indistinct sound. He’s trying to learn the language, but at 65 it’s not easy to start something new, just as it’s not easy to adapt to a culture and a society completely different from the one he comes from: the opulence that he sees around him it’s almost disturbing, and people's behaviour sometimes troubles him.

He feels really at ease only when he’s at home with Valery, and can pretend that the outside world doesn’t exist.

One evening Valery comes home with a deeply annoyed frown on his face.

"Have you already had a fight with a colleague?" Boris asks.

"What? No! I'm not that quarrelsome!"

Boris turns to the stove and says nothing, but raises an eyebrow.

"I'm not!" Valery reiterates, then lights up a cigarette and sighs, "But there are aspects of this work that I had underestimated."

"Like?"

“We are required to take part to gala dinners! To raise funds, to explain the agency's work, to foster cooperation with other bureaus, and who knows what else."

"So what?" Honestly, Boris doesn't understand why Valery is so upset.

"Have you ever attended a gala dinner?"

"Several times."

"Well, I never did! And I didn't choose this job to entertain entrepreneurs and businessmen!"

Ah, here is the problem: during a gala dinner Valery should talk to strangers, about topics that are outside nuclear physics. 

A dinner like that requires a certain degree of diplomacy, a quality that Valery lacks.

"And then I bet it's one of those posh places where there are dozens of cutlery at the table. Who the hell needs four forks for a dinner?"

"Well, not everyone masters your sublime art of drinking fruit juice directly from the carton."

Valery snorts and throws him a rag, that Boris catches on the fly.

"You'll be fine. Just don’t jump at the neck of someone who says something stupid. Er... actually, try to interact as little as possible with other diners, okay?"

"Come with me," Valery pleads, "the invitation says I can bring a plus one."

Boris scratches one eyebrow: "Valery, I don't think it's a good idea."

In Austria, homosexuality isn’t illegal, but this doesn’t mean that it’s welcome: Boris has noticed the icy glances from the family that lives on the first floor, and he’s quite sure that the parents have said their children never to speak with them.

"You know I don't care what people say or think!" Valery exclaims, grabbing Boris’ hand, so that their rings touch, "Borja, please! I'll end up being the wallflower all night long."

Valery is unhappy like a man sentenced to death, and Boris has long since given up to impose himself when Valey looks at him like this; besides he knows that his social anxiety would ruin the evening for him.

Furthermore, a gala dinner is a pleasant variation from his daily routine.

"Okay, but I’ll choose our suits."

"Deal," Valery pulls him for a kiss, distracting him from cooking, and that evening they end up eating slightly burned steaks.

"This is the last time you choose clothings for me," Valery shouts from the bedroom; Boris, who is in the bathroom and is finishing combing his hair, laughs.

"Why do you say that?"

"You took me a shirt with cufflinks, when a few centuries ago someone invented buttons," the professor grumbles.

"Give me a minute and I'll come to your rescue."

"Ha bloody ha!"

Boris takes one last look at the mirror, nods with satisfaction, and gets out.

For Valery he rented a light gray three-piece suit with a blue shirt and a darker blue tie that matched his eyes, instead for him he chose a classic black tuxedo with bow tie and cummerband.

Boris is ready, he just has to wear his jacket, while Valery is still fighting with the cufflinks and the tie and he hasn't even worn the waistcoat.

"Valerka, the taxi will be here in ten minutes, hurry up."

He finishes buttoning Valery’s shirt, fastens the cufflinks, and fixes the tie, stopping it with the pin on his shirt; perhaps an excessive precaution, since he will also wear the waistcoat, but Valery has the extraordinary ability to crook his clothes in the most unexpected ways.

"Here, done."

Boris takes the jacket of his tuxedo from the hanger and starts to button it up, when he realizes that Valery has fallen silent and is looking at him with his mouth ajar.

"What?"

Valery licks his lips, and his eyes become definitely interested.

"You are... I would eat you right now."

Boris will never stop being flattered by Valery's attentions, even if he doesn't understand what's so special about him now.

"It's always me."

"Oh no, it’s you in a tuxedo," Valery walks to him and runs his fingertips over Boris’ satin shirt, then insinuates them under the suspenders, "Now I know what to give you for Christmas."

"A gift for me or for you?"

"For both of us," Valery leans on him, but Boris holds him at arm's length.

"Not now!"

"Let’s stay at home, I have plenty of ideas on how to spend the time."

"No, we can't." It would be extremely rude not to show up for the gala dinner, even if Valery's offer is tempting.

Valery pouts, and Boris kisses his forehead, laughing: "Behave for the next few hours, and I promise you I'll keep the tuxedo on when we get home. Now calm down," he says, pointing to Valery’s crotch, "or it will be an extremely embarrassing taxi ride."

"If you want to help me, get out of here," Valery pushes him jokingly into the living room and finishes dressing, but struggles to get the image of Boris in a tuxedo out of his mind.

He sighs: it will be a very long evening.

While they are waiting in line to leave their coats in the coatroom, Valery glances at the dining room, already full of people, and rubs his fingers incessantly.

Boris takes him by the elbow and pulls him into a secluded corner.

"Valera, look at me."

The professor obeys.

"You have to calm down."

"It's easy for you to talk, you're so..." Valery sighs, shaking his head.

Boris is elegant and self-confident in every circumstance, he always knows what to say and how to behave, obviously he can’t understand his discomfort.

Boris' hand finds his, and gently intertwines their fingers.

"You have no reason to be nervous: you’re a scientist with a prestigious job, an intelligent, brilliant man and," he lowers his voice to a whisper, although it’s unlikely that anyone knows Russian, "you’re incredibly sexy in this suit."

"Shut up," Valery snorts, looking away, but now he's smiling.

The presence of Boris has a calming effect on Valery, who, having forgotten his usual anxiety, manages to have a polite conversation with two people sitting at their table, even though they aren’t so favorable to nuclear energy.

A quick glance at Boris and at the cutlery he is using during dinner, avoids him making gaffes.

After a while, however, Valery withdraws from the conversation, which has already tired him out, and closes in his head, thinking about the report he’s writing for the agency and the work he has to plan for the next few weeks, while Boris is talking in a decent French with a Lebanese businessman.

The two men are immersed in a conversation about infrastructures, red tape and costs, something that is very familiar to Boris, and that makes him feel behind his desk in the Kremlin again.

"... and just because I have a lot of money, it doesn't mean I want to waste it," the man complains.

"Well, of course."

"Eh, but the costs of this project are rising too much for my taste."

"I know," replies Boris, sipping a glass of red wine, "when the money is dispersed in the thousand slots of a project, the costs increase, but based on my experience, they can often be contained. In an ambitious and big project like yours, there are expenditures that are unnecessary."

The businessman seems interested: "Really?"

Boris nods: he has spent half of his life building factories and infrastructures, having to deal with limited financial resources, he knows what he’s talking about.

"I think you could cut the costs by 7, maybe 8%."

"If you can do such a thing, you’re not a former bureaucrat, you’re a magician, Boris Evdokimovich. Are you serious?"

"I never joke about such serious matters."

The businessman gives him his business card: "Come and see me in my office next Wednesday: if you really manage to contain the costs of my project, we could start a collaboration: after the end of the Soviet Union, some friends and I would like to invest in Russia, but your bureaucracy is a maze, if I may say it."

"Not with the right compass," Boris replies.

"So, are you happy you have a job?" Valery asks, his head resting on Boris’ shoulder, while they are in the bathtub: he was right to insist to make him come to that gala dinner, and he’s happy for him: Boris is a man full of energy, and inactivity doesn’t suit him, not yet.

On the taxi back home, Boris told him about the businessman's proposal, and in the end he didn't know who was more excited for the news.

Maybe Valery, who really made him keep on his tuxedo, while giving him a memorable blowjob against the kitchen counter.

Boris kisses his neck: "It's not a job, for now it's just a financial advice, and maybe it will be a disaster."

He doesn’t want to fool himself, but if it goes well, the voice will spread, and there may be other people interested in his experience.

"Nonsense: it will be fine," Valery replies, turning around and making a lot of water overflow, "you’re a former deputy chairman, people should stand in line for your advice."

Boris glares at the water splashed on the floor and growls, because he knows that he will be the one to clean it, but Valery is kissing his neck, plastered on him, and makes it really hard to get angry.

"I'm ruined: by now you've learned how to always get by."

Valery's laughter reverberates throughout his body and, as Boris runs his hands down his back, he thinks that Valery can get away get by whenever he wants.

Once he met the businessman and his associates, Boris realizes that the project is really complex and he needs more time to study it: he manages to arrange a tiny workstation between the kitchenette and the living room, with a folding table, a calculator and a typewriter, frequently invaded by Tuman and Noch, intrigued by the novelty.

It's not his office in the Kremlin, with Tanya answering the phone and typing for him, but there are Valery's slippers by the sofa, a file on the windowsill that the professor has forgotten, and their tea cups in the sink. He would never go back and give up what he has now.

Boris takes the job very seriously, as he always has done, writes his report on how to cut the costs, and in the end the entrepreneurs are very satisfied.

A second assignment doesn’t take long to arrive, followed by a third, and the papers accumulate on the folding table.

"You have to find an office," Valery tells him one evening when they’re already in bed.

Boris takes off his reading glasses and puts them on the bedside table with the bills he is reviewing, rubbing his tired eyes: Valery is right, his documents are quickly occupying all the space available in the attic.

"Yes, I'll start looking for it soon."

"Another thing," Valery rolls on him and points an accusing finger at the documents, "those stay out of the bedroom. Here you are only for me,” he murmurs, undoing a button of Boris’ pajama jacket to bite his collarbone.

"Quite right."

"I hate feeling neglected." Valery’s hand opens the drawer of the bedside table.

"Can I make it up to you somehow?" Boris throws his pajamas on the floor.

Valery bites his lips: "Turn around."

Boris indulges him, closing his eyes as Valery places a pillow under his belly and prepares him: Valery doesn't often show that dominant side of himself, but he's incredibly sexy when he does.

He should pretend to neglect him more often, Boris thinks, as Valery pushes inside him with a broken sob.

Boris finds the office, his business expands, including also some travel abroad. However, he is always very careful in balancing work and private life: he doesn’t want to overdo it, he isn’t working to live, but only not to get too bored.

Therefore the work is always in the background, and his life with Valery comes first: Boris never gives up a weekend, a vacation, or even a dinner out with Valery just because he has to work.

In Vienna, Boris and Valery spend very happy years, but they also have a hard time.

It's a day like any other, Boris is going to meet a client, walking along the street at a fast pace, when he simply stops.

 _"?"_ He thinks: he doesn’t understand why he suddenly feels his legs heavy as lead and he’s unable to take a step forward: he’s tired as if he had climbed a mountain. He isn’t even scared, just perplexed, but then the pain suddenly explodes in his chest.

 _"Damn,"_ he muses, as he slumps to the ground and a couple of boys rush to his rescue, _"Valery will be terrified."_

The telephone rings, and Valery has to move around a pile of books to reach it: he must tidy up his office, even the cleaning woman refuses to put her hand in that chaos by now.

"Hello?"

"Hello, are you... Professor Valery Legasov?" Asks a calm, professional female voice.

"Yes, who am I talking to?"

"This is the Barmherzige Schwestern hospital. Do you know Mr. Boris Shcherbina?"

Valery's legs almost give way, and a violent wave of nausea and terror assails him.

"Boris! What happened to him?"

"We found your number in Mr. Shcherbina's wallet. Are you a relative?"

"Tell me what happened to him!" Valery screams, punching his desk.

"Please calm down: we can only release this information to a relative, but yours is the only number signed here."

"There is no relative, there is only me, Boris and I are together! Tell me what happened to him, please!"

The woman covers the phone receiver and talks with someone else.

"Don't fucking ignore me!" Valery screams so loud that a couple of colleagues come to check what's going on.

"I'm sorry, but if you aren’t a relative I can't..."

"W-wait! I have a document," a spark of lucidity makes its way into the sticky panic where Valery's mind is sinking.

"Are you saying you’re his legal guardian?"

"I don't know, maybe... I think so."

"Look, bring the document here and we'll see. I leave you the hospital address."

Valery scribbles it quickly and runs out, ignoring the questions and the astonished looks of his colleagues; he stops a taxi on the fly and goes home.

Along the way, there is only one word that bounces in his mind, like the crazy ball of a pinball machine, _"Borisborisborisborisboris,"_ and when the taxi brakes in front of their building, Valery almost bumps into the back of the front seat.

"Sir? Sir, we are here."

"Uh?" Valery looks up, dazed.

"I said we arrived. Are you okay?"

 _"Yes, you're okay, you idiot, it's Boris who needs you, so move! Now!"_ he reproaches himself.

He tightens his lips and nods to the taxi driver: "Yes, yes, but don’t leave, wait for me here."

He throws some bills at him, and runs upstairs; he kneels on the floor and opens the living room cabinet where they keep all the important papers, frantically searching for a blue folder.

It doesn't take long to him to find it, because it’s Boris who takes care of that little space and forbids Valery to put his hands in it.

Usually the thought would make him smile, but now it just makes him breathing heavily.

In his wallet Boris has Valery’s number to call, and here in their attic there is the folder that Valery holds in his hands, that contains Boris’ will and also a document where he named Valery his legal guardian, in case something happens to him.

Boris took care of this a few months after arriving in Vienna, and forced Valery to sign the same documents, explaining what he should do in case of medical emergency.

Since they aren’t married, in the eyes of the law they are just two strangers living together, Boris learned this hard lesson when Valery fell ill with pneumonia in 1986, so, now that they live in Vienna, he thought of any eventualities that could happen, even the most unpleasant ones, while Valery never wanted to deal with them.

He squeezes the blue folder, gets up and runs back to the taxi.

"Take me to the Barmherzige Schwestern hospital, quickly," he orders to the driver.

At the hospital, the head physician checks the document that Valery brought, and finally explains to him what happened.

Boris collapsed in the street and hasn’t regained consciousness since.

The examination revealed that he has a blockage in a coronary artery, and he should be operated.

"However, for the surgery we need the consent of a family member or guardian, as in your case," the doctor says, putting a form in front of Valery to sign.

"Is it risky?"

"Maybe he needs a coronary bypass, maybe a stent is enough: we will be able to evaluate it only after a more detailed examination. The patient is barely seventy years old, so the chances that he will be alright are high, but it’s always a heart surgery," the doctor says, "of course it’s risky."

These are scary words, but Boris needs Valery to decide for him. He takes a deep breath, and signs the consent form.

A nurse hands him a paper bag containing Boris' clothes and personal effects, and raises an eyebrow as she puts the wedding ring in his hand, but Valery ignores her.

He doesn’t care what other people think: they know nothing about them, their story, their love. 

He doesn't care about anything, now that Boris is about to be taken to the operating room, he just wants those hours to pass as quickly as possible, for Boris to open his eyes, smile at him, and tell him that everything is alright.

He is told that he can’t wait in the intensive care unit, and he is advised to go home: he will be called when the surgery is finished, but Valery refuses and decides to stop in the emergency room waiting room: no one will be able to drive him away from the hospital, from Boris.

Evening comes, then night. People who usually live at the edge of society come in and out the emergency room: some tramps who seek shelter from the cold, a man who has been beaten in a fight and is bleeding profusely, screaming drunks, some restless drug addicts waiting for the dose of methadone, and then there is Valery, but he sees none of what surrounds him.

He’s sitting stiffly on a chair in a corner, wearing a jacket too light for the season; he hasn’t eaten nothing since morning but doesn’t feel hungry, and isn’t cold; he’s almost anesthetized by the anguish he feels.

It's five o'clock in the morning when a nurse calls him.

"If you want to follow me, the surgeon will explain the surgery they performed."

Valery gets up, but staggers, for sitting too long, for not having eaten, for the fear that still grips him.

"Boris..."

"The surgery was successful," the woman reassures him.

Valery takes a moment to lean against the wall, and lets the relief invade him, then follows the woman.

The blockage of the coronary artery was less severe than expected, the surgeon explains, they managed to repair it with a stent, the patient has already been extubated, and they’re satisfied with both the surgery and the postoperative course.

However, the doctor’s face is very serious as he talks, and Valery can feel the _"but"_ hovering in the air.

Valery opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, steels himself and asks, "... but?"

"But he still hasn't woken up. There is no need to be alarmed, not yet," the doctor says, raising a hand in a soothing gesture, "some patients take longer than others."

But from the expression on his face, Valery understands that Boris is taking too much time.

"Can I see him?"

"Only for a few minutes."

They have him wash his hands and put on gloves, gown, cap, and overshoes before admitting him to the intensive care unit; the silence there is almost unreal, the nurses seem to move on tiptoe, and the loudest noise heard is the machinery buzzer.

"He has several wires and surgical drains attached," says the woman who accompanies Valery, before admitting him to Boris' room, "don't be scared, it's normal."

Instead Valery is scared, a lot, because Boris is energetic, loud, larger than life, he’s the exact opposite of the man who lies asleep on that hospital bed.

"Hey..." Valery whispers, "It's me, I'm here."

Stupidly, Valery’s eyes immediately run to the monitor, hoping to see a sudden change in the frequency of his heartbeats or his breath, but nothing happens.

"The doctors say you don't want to wake up. Is it a revenge because I made you scared when I caught pneumonia, years ago?"

Boris remains motionless in the bed.

"You know, when a few days ago I said it would be nice to take a break from work and go on holiday I didn't mean this..." Valery tries to play down, but his voice breaks on the last word.

He’s tired and scared and feels he’s about to fall apart.

"Why don't you wake up?"

The nurse advised him not to touch the patient, so Valery leans against the rail of the bed and squeezes it tightly.

"Borja, do you want to know a secret? I know about you: where you come from and how you got here. Do you remember? You told me yourself that evening when I got drunk, on my way back from Vienna.

The hangover had made me forget everything but, over time, I started to remember some fragments of the things you told me. At first I didn't believe it, how could I? I thought it was just the side effect of alcohol, but a few years ago I had a strange dream and after that time I began to remember more clearly. Not everything, but the essential things: that you come from a place where there was a terrible nuclear accident at Chernobyl, that you were never able to accept my death and when you had the chance to meet me again, you grabbed it, even if you didn't know if it would work.

Then, when we had that ugly fight, when I told you I wanted to die before you, you didn't shout me terrible abuses, as I told you later, you shouted that you had seen me die: it was then that I knew for certain that you had told me the truth.

And you know what? I believe you. I don't know how it’s possible, scientifically speaking, but I believe you.

Maybe now you’re wondering why I never said a word about it. Well, it’s because I don't care where you come from, if you’re from another Moscow or from Mars, I only know that you searched for me, you found me, I only know you love me and I love you, so... so now I won't let you leave me, not after you've gone all that way. 

No, you're here now and you have to stay, because I'm lost without you, Borja, completely lost, you know: I leave the stove on, I forget to pay the bills and... I can't imagine not having you by my side, not anymore.

Come back to me, please."

He’s in a very nice place, and it's peaceful there, so peaceful that he could stop and rest for a while.

Or maybe forever.

He's tired, and the idea is tempting.

But there is a voice that makes its way into the muffled silence that surrounds him, a voice that’s calling him, sweet and familiar, a voice that sounds like home.

_"Come back to me, please."_

Who is it?

_"Borja."_

Ah yes, it's Valera.

_"I love you."_

He can't stay there, no matter how pleasant this place is, his Valera is calling him.

The nurse opens the door, "Now you must go. You can come back tomorrow if you want."

Valery throws a last, desperate look at the monitor, then lowers his head and drags his feet towards the door, when a voice, rough like sandpaper, stops him.

"Let him stay."

"BORIS!"

Boris is looking at him with his grey eyes, a little smile on his tired face, and lifts a hand towards him.

"Let him stay," he repeats.

Valery almost collapses on his knees beside his bed as he squeezes his hand tightly.

"You scared me so much, Borja, so much!" Valery sobs, "What came to your mind, getting sick like that?"

Boris is experiencing pain everywhere and tries not to laugh, because he knows it would make it worse.

"Forgive me," he murmurs. He’s becoming an expert in apologizing for things that aren’t his fault.

After that, Boris’ postoperative course is satisfactory for the doctors, and after a few days he’s already able to get up and walk. 

Anyway, as he himself had said years before, he’s a terrible patient, irascible and uncooperative; he hates everything: the medicines, the nurses who nag him to drink a bowl of broth, the hospital gown that makes him feel virtually naked, and the undignified tubes that come out of every part of his body.

Besides, after being discharged from the hospital, he can’t go straight home as he would like, because he has to go in a cardiopulmonary rehabilitation clinic outside Vienna for a while.

It’s hard for Valery not to have Boris at home, and he has yet to overcome the fear of having almost lost him. He tries not to show it, but he goes to see Boris whenever he can.

One afternoon he finds Boris sitting on a bench in the garden of the clinic, with his arms folded over his chest and a grim face, and he runs to sit beside him, leaning a hand on his knee.

"Boris, what is it? Did you feel ill again?"

"Hm? No, no," Boris strokes the back of his hand to calm him, "but today I talked with my cardiologist."

"AND?"

"And he told me, no, he ordered me to adopt a healthier lifestyle: I have to walk more, avoid greasy food, and above all I must stop drinking alcohol." If possible, Boris' face gets even grimer.

Valery rolls his eyes: "Just that? You scared me."

"Well, it’s not _just that_ for me."

"Don't behave like it were the end of the world," Valery reproaches him, "There are worse things."

Boris grumbles again, sigh heavily, but then shrugs: "It seems I can't do anything but accept it, since it's for my own good, but you could at least let me complain as long as I want to!"

Valery knows well that some of their habits are detrimental to their health, but he also understands how difficult it’s for Boris to suddenly change his lifestyle and giving up vodka. Right now, the packet of cigarettes he carries in his pocket weighs like a boulder, so Valery takes it and throws it in the waste bin.

Boris looks at him as if he's gone mad.

"We do it together: a healthier lifestyle for both of us."

Boris snorts and shakes his head: "You’ll not last a day without smoking, and you’ll be hysterical before evening."

"I can do it," Valery insists, stubbornly, "if you don't drink anymore, I don't smoke anymore." He holds out his hands to help Boris stand up, then hugs him tightly. 

"In sickness and in health. It works like this, doesn't it?"

Boris’ big hand pets his nape: "I think so, but speaking of marriage vows," he bends his head, brushing Valery’s ear with his lips, "there are others I intend to honor, once back home."

And finally Valery laughs. Boris hasn't seen him laugh since he was hospitalized.

"Hm, are you laughing? I assure you that you’ll not laugh when we are in bed."

Valery lowers his head, resting it on Boris’ chest, "I count on it."

He is no longer used to sleep alone, without the comfortable warmth of Boris' body next to his own, and he can't wait for that terrible period to pass, and for Boris to come home.

Finally Boris is discharged, with some pills and the recommendations of the doctors, and, once at home, he insists to carry his suitcase up to the attic, although Valery tries to stop him.

"You have to realize that you're not a kid anymore, Boris!"

"Until proven otherwise, you're the one who's out of breath, and you're not even carrying a suitcase."

"You're stubborn!" Valery grumbles as he closes the door.

Boris drops the suitcase to the floor, and pushes Valery against the door, sucking his earlobe.

"Do you realize it now?"

Valery clings to his shoulders and closes his eyes, but continues to complain: "You’re impossible."

Boris kisses his pouting lips.

"You seem more fussy than usual, I bet it's because you stopped smoking. I wonder if I can do anything to distract you." Boris pushes a knee between his legs, and Valery's complaints turn into a groan of desire as he ruts against him, but then Boris walks away, ignoring his outraged look.

"Undress," he tells Valery, sitting in an armchair and loosening his tie.

Valery takes off one garment after another, and when he’s in front of Boris, between his knees, he is naked and hard, while Boris has still his suit on and has no intention of undressing: the contrast between Valery’s pale, freckled skin, and his dark suit is incredibly erotic.

Boris caresses Valery’s thighs, follows the outline of his sides with his fingers, and then grabs his hips, making Valery sit on him.

Valery moans as his skin brushes against Boris’ clothes.

"I often thought of you while I was in the clinic," Boris whispers, running his fingers along Valery’s spine.

Valery closes his eyes and shudders, throwing his head back and exposing his neck to Boris' attentions.

"I thought of your smell," Boris moves down to kiss his collarbones, "of the taste of your skin," he treacherously closes his lips around one of Valery’s nipples, making him groan, "hm, yes, even of your voice."

Valery fumbles with the zip of Boris' trousers, freeing his straining erection, but Boris bats his hands away.

"Did I suggest that you are in charge tonight?" He asks in a hoarse voice.

Valery shudders and shakes his head.

"No, indeed." He puts two fingers on Valery’s mouth, "suck."

Valery obeys, wetting his fingers with saliva; Boris brings them between Valery’s buttcheks and massages his hole, teasing but not penetrating him, and Valery's dripping cock stains his tie and shirt.

"Do you want me even if I'm an impossible Ukrainian?"

"Boris..." Valery hisses a warning, squeezing his shoulders.

But Boris has no intention of stopping teasing him: "You said it yourself that I'm no longer a kid, maybe I shouldn't..."

At this point Valery blocks Boris’ wrist and impales himself sharply on his fingers with a cry of pleasure.

Boris takes pity on him and starts preparing him, while he continues to kiss and bite whatever part of Valery he can reach.

"Are you ready?"

“Y-yes, please.”

Boris takes Valery’s hand, licking his palm and then bringing it on his throbbing erection; closes his eyes and releases a satisfied sigh as Valery strokes him, then throws his head back when Valery gets up on his knees and slowly descends on him.

Boris holds his hips and doesn’t move, causing Valery's impatience to grow enormously, until Valery throws his arms around his neck and begs him.

"Borja, please... I need..."

Boris moves his hands on Valery’s buttocks, letting Valery ride him, but when he brings a hand between them, Boris bats it away again, then takes off his tie, wraps it around Valery's erection and slides it over his hot skin.

Valery shudders at the unexpected contact with the silk, stifling a sob against Boris' neck.

"Oh… again..." he pleads, and Boris wraps once again the silk ribbon around him, tighter this time, in a game that balances pleasure and pain.

Valery rides him faster and faster, almost delirious with pleasure, and when Boris' tie runs over his testicles in a sensual caress and then suddenly grips them hard, he arches his back and comes, dragging Boris to the orgasm.

Boris lies back against the armchair and Valery drapes on him, his lips on Boris neck, drunk with endorphins.

"I'm not complaining, but how did it come to you?" Valery asks, wrapping his fingers around the stained tie. It’s ruined beyond salvation, but it was worth it.

"I told you, I often thought of you while I was in the clinic."

"Hm... and do you have other ideas?"

"Give me a few hours and I'll show you."

The next morning, Valery wakes up hearing Boris talk to someone on the phone, and sighs: he's already back at work. 

Years ago, he was the first one to be happy that Boris had something to do, but now maybe he’s changing his mind: he’s not afraid that Boris may have another attack (the doctors assured that they have perfectly repaired the coronary defect), but he realizes that he’s jealous of the person who is talking to Boris, because they’re taking time away from them.

He gets up and looks at Boris from the doorway of their bedroom: he doesn't care if it’s a childish thought, he wants Boris all for himself.

When Boris notices him he doesn't stop talking, but spreads an arm, inviting Valery to join him, and then he leans his head against his stomach, while Valery strokes his hair. 

Valery would like to stay like this all morning, but unfortunately the work awaits him, too.

A few months later, Valery opens his eyes and sighs: that morning his awakening is greeted by big white flakes that are already thickening against the window glass.

It’s the first snowfall of the season: soon Vienna will be covered with snow and it will be cold.

The idea doesn’t makes him smile: perhaps it becoming too cold for the two of them.

He's been thinking about it for a while, along with other things.

Boris prods him on the back with a finger.

"You'll end up being late."

"I don't want to get up," Valery grumbles, burying himself under the covers, but Boris pushes them away to join him, and turns him around to look him in the eye.

"What's up?"

"Nothing."

"Valera..."

"Okay, if you really want to know, I'm thinking of quitting my job."

"If you do it because you think I’m old and need a nurse, I..."

"No, it's not for that," Valery takes his hand to placate him, "but now, when I'm in my office, the only thing I can think is that we're not spending time together. You said it yourself, Boris: we won't have many more years, and I don't want to waste them, I'm still very much in love and very selfish, and I don't want to share you with my or your job."

"I understand," Boris strokes Valery’s cheek, as he thinks about his words. He’s not wrong: his job as a consultant was a good diversion from boredom for a few years, but now, when he’s working, he misses Valery at his side, much more than before, and the prospect of returning to travel abroad or spending whole days with his clients, isn’t appealing.

Even if in this timeline they haven’t received a death sentence due to the radiation, time flows without stopping, in any dimension, and they have aged. It's a fact.

"Boris?"

"Hn?"

"Do you ever think that we could have acted differently? Maybe leaving the Soviet Union as soon as we met and retreating somewhere in the world."

"No," he replies confidently, and in front of Valery’s shocked face, he catches his lips in a reassuring kiss, "spending every minute with you would have been wonderful, but would you have been completely satisfied without your experiments, the conferences and the publications you've done over the past eleven years?"

Valery thinks carefully about it, playing with the collar of Boris pajamas, then shakes his head: his work has been an important part of his life, in Moscow first, and then in Vienna, and he is proud of what he has achieved.

"See? It wasn’t the right time yet, neither for you or for me."

"And now?"

"It's probably time to fully exploit our retirement plan," Boris admits. "Is there a particular place where you would like to go living?"

"I didn't talk about moving."

Boris chuckles and kisses him again: "Eleven years, remember? By now I know you, Valera, I know when there's a thought in here," he touches his forehead, "struggling to get out."

"Vienna is beautiful, but winter is long and really cold. A colleague told me marvels about Corsica, where his uncle lives: it’s sunny, has a good climate, it’s not humid, and it’s a quiet place."

"Corsica?" Boris looks at him incredulously, and then closes his eyes: life is a spinning wheel, isn’t it?

"Yes, why? Of course if you don't like it, we will consider other places."

"No, no. Corsica is perfect. Starting from tomorrow, I will be take information about real estate properties down there."

"Oh, do you have anything else to do today?"

"Since you have no intention of going to work, yes," Boris answers, throwing a leg over Valery's, and making him giggle uncontrollably, until he silences him with a kiss.


	18. 18

Bonifacio, April 2nd, 1997

Corsica is big but, among the various properties for sale, in the end their choice falls on a house in Bonifacio: it’s the one that Valery likes the most, and Boris somehow thinks it’s right that the circle closes there again.

The house is spacious and has a beautiful sunny garden overlooking the sea.

While Valery is looking at the deep blue sea, barefoot on the damp grass, the light breeze that ruffles his hair, Boris joins him, surrounds his waist with his arms and kisses his nape, and Valery leans on Boris’ chest, closing his eyes.

"Do you like it?"

"It's perfect, Boris."

"Are you happy?" Boris asks, mouth on his hair.

Valery puts his hands on Boris’, "With you? Always."

Boris cradles him gently, following the slow rhythm of the waves, until the sky turns orange.

He still remembers when he arrived in this town in his old reality, alone, embittered and without any hope, while now he holds his world in his arms.

 _"Thank you,"_ he only thinks, addressing the fate or the universe, _"thank you."_

The arrival of two foreign men living together is a novelty for a town where, outside the tourist season, there isn’t much to talk about. Valery and Boris spike a lot of curiosity and gossip among the locals, but no one dares to ask questions to the imposing Ukrainian who, despite the passing of the years, instils a certain fear only with his bulk and his frown.

Valery and Boris hire a housekeeper named Anita, the widow of a fisherman who could have any age between forty and sixty, stocky, brisk, not much of a talker, but very fast and efficient, a good helper for Boris in fighting Valery’s untidiness, which has never improved over the years.

Anita calls them respectfully _"monsieur Boris"_ and _"monsieur Valery"_ , and although she grew up in a traditional Catholic family, she is unfazed by them being a couple, even when she happens to see their daily gestures of affection, when Valery passes a cup of tea to Boris kissing him on the neck, or when Boris brings Valery’s head on his shoulder when they are on the sofa.

Valery is quite surprised: in Russia homosexuality was a crime and their relationship was illegal, in Vienna his colleagues had adopted a strict "don't ask, don't tell" policy, but it was clear that some were uncomfortable around him.

In general he has always perceived more hostility than acceptance around him, but Anita really behaves as if it were... well... normal.

That morning, for example, he and Boris stayed in bed until late (now that neither of them work they can afford to be lazy) and when she arrived, they were still under the covers, but she simply greeted them, and then started vacuuming the living room.

Valery wonders if it's because she needs money and then she pretends not to see. It’s true that he doesn’t care what people think, but Anita comes often to their home, she isn’t just a random stranger.

They never talked about the issue, but Valery feels they should do it.

Right?

While Boris is gone shopping for groceries, Valery decides to ask her a few questions, using a small dictionary. In fact, if the first times in Vienna it was Boris to be in trouble with German, here it’s Valery who doesn’t speak French well.

"Anita, how are you doing here with us?"

"Very well, monsieur Valery."

"Isn't there any problem, then?"

"Uh? Of course not," the woman barks a rough laugh, which somehow reminds Valery of Boris’ one, "you keep your house very clean. I had some strenuous work in the past, like when I worked as a maid in the hotel near the pine grove, and they didn't even want to pay me. No, working here is an easy task for me."

Valery licks his lips and flies through the dictionary: he hasn’t made himself understood. The language barrier sometimes is frustrating.

"No, I didn't mean physical exertion when I mentioned problems. I mean... uhm... Boris and I... we... you know..."

The woman laughs even louder, then looks at Valery as if he were a stupid sod: "The taxes are a problem, the fires on the hill during summer are a problem, but love is never a problem." That said, she resumes dusting the bookcase.

"Oh..." Valery thinks that he really deserved that look.

Anita turns around again, and this time she looks at him with pity: "I'll tell you another thing, monsieur Valery: people talk behind your back, they’re scandalized and outraged, it's true, but many of them would pay tons of gold to have the love that you and monsieur Boris share."

Valery smiles and thinks he will draw a portrait of Anita and he will gift it to her: beautiful people are his favourite subjects.

That evening, he mentions to Boris the conversation he had with their housekeeper.

"... so she confirmed that she has no problems with us."

"I know," Boris replies calmly, "Why, did that worry you?"

"Well, a little, yes."

"Valera, do you really think I would have allowed her to set foot in our house, if only I had suspected she wouldn’t like us?"

No, of course: Boris wouldn’t allow anyone to hurt him, not even with a look or an abrasive word. His attentions may be invisible, but they’re always solid.

Valery sighs, placing his fork on the plate: "I'm really a naive idiot, right?"

Under the table, Boris’ foot touches Valery's ankle.

"Yes, but you’re my naive idiot."

In this timeline, Bonifacio doesn’t have a sanatorium just outside the town, but a common hospital; however, on top of a hill not far away, there is still an abandoned asylum.

One afternoon Boris asks Valery to accompany him up there.

He’s engrossed in his thoughts during the short drive, and doesn’t answer Valery’s questions.

They leave the car in what was once the parking lot of the asylum, a paved open space now full of holes.

The building is in a much worse shape than that of his old reality: the plaster has come off almost completely, exposing the underlying bricks, the cornices have fallen and large shrubs have grown on the roof, but after all it has been abandoned for many more years.

An orange plastic net blocks the entrance to the building, because it’s not safe.

Valery isn’t very interested in the old abandoned building, he finds it gloomy and dirty, but he’s fascinated by the view from the old parking lot.

"Ah, that must be the famous Grain de sable," he says, pointing to a sea stack not far from the coast, "it's spectacular, don't you think?"

When Boris doesn’t answer, Valery turns around, but he is alone.

"Boris?"

Boris found a gap in the net, and entered the building.

Dirt and ruin reign everywhere and it seems that no one has set foot there for years.

He looks at the row of plastic seats with his hands sunk in the pockets of the trousers. In another timeline, here he listened to the unlikely story of a skinny, neurotic boy, here he chose to believe in the impossible.

He moves past the reception desk and goes down the stairs that lead to the basement, but here there are only old rusty electrical panels, no strange bathysphere or cables running on the floor.

Paulie has never been here, in this reality.

Sometimes Boris still thinks of him: who knows if he has reached a timeline similar to his, or if he is still jumping through time.

Thinking back to the life he had, how lucky he was to find Valery and having spent so many years with him, Boris really hopes that things went well for that strange boy.

"Boris, are you here?" Valery shouts from the entrance of the asylum.

Boris goes up the stairs, "Here I am."

"What were you doing down there?"

"I explored the place. Don't you like abandoned building?"

Valery scoffs: "Not really, and I don't understand why you find this ugly place so fascinating. Come out in the sun, it's much nicer."

The air is fresh and clean and smells like salt, the sun is warm and bright on their backs, and Boris is simply happy.

Valery, leaning against the low stone wall, is pointing to the sea stacks and to the yachts that slowly move toward the marina of Bonifacio.

"... and I think it’s a beautiful landscape for a drawing."

Boris turns him around and plants a smacking kiss on his lips, making Valery chuckle, but then he kneels before him.

"Boris! What do you think you’re doing?" Valery asks, gaping at him.

"You can stop me if you don't want to," he answers in a hoarse voice, his face smashed against his groin.

"God, Boris... we are outdoors!"

"Nobody ever comes up here," he says, lowering the zipper of his trousers.

"But…"

"I told you," Boris says, raising his gray eyes, which now shine with mischief, "you can stop me."

"You're the most impossible man I know," Valery mumbles, closing his eyes as he rests his hands on Boris' shoulders, but despite his reluctance, he’s already hard.

Boris doesn’t wait any longer and takes him in his mouth, sucking greedily.

They are both older now, they don't have as much sex as before, and the passion has morphed in the tenderness and the joy of each other's company, but when the occasion strikes, neither of them says no.

Boris' expert tongue is doing marvels around his erection, but Valery can't relax completely: every noise makes him jump, the obscene and wet sounds of Boris' mouth seem louder than usual, the fear of being caught distracts him and keeps him on the edge, and this prolongs the pleasure much longer than usual.

When he finally comes into Boris’ mouth, he is almost exhausted.

Boris gets up with some difficulty (his knees don't share the same enthusiasm for his idea) and steals a kiss from Valery, who he’s still trying to catch his breath.

"So, tell me, what's gotten into you?"

"Nothing," Boris replies, leaning his forehead on Valery’s, "I’m happy."

"Now I'm very happy too," Valery laughs, then looks around furtively, "do you want...?" He asks, stroking Boris over his trousers.

Boris rocks his hip against his hand.

"What do you think?" He growls, leaving a red mark on his neck, while Valery's fingers unbutton his trousers.

Now that his nose is no longer buried in nuclear physics books, Valery spends much more time drawing. He bought an easel, paper and Indian inks of the highest quality, and also some textbooks to improve his technique.

One summer morning, while Valery is sitting in the garden painting the bougainvillea that climbs on the side of their house, a local man stops, enchanted by his drawing, and tells him something in an enthusiastic but too fast French.

Valery gestures to the stranger to wait, and calls Boris for a help with the translation.

It turns out that the man, named Lucas, has an art gallery in the modern neighbourhood of the town and was so impressed by Valery's drawings that he asked him if he wanted to display them in his gallery.

"I understand that the offer is sudden, but come and see me in my exhibition space," he says, handing them a business card, "we'll talk about it, I'm sure we'll find a deal."

When the man left, after saying goodbye with a warm handshake, Boris explains to Valery who he is and what he said.

Valery looks at him blinking slowly, then shrugs, laughing.

Boris frowns: "Why do you react like this?"

"Come on Boris, it's nonsense: my drawings are certainly not something to be put on display, not in an art gallery."

"Anita wanted three of them for her house."

"She asked me just to be nice, because she sees me paint for hours."

Boris looks at him in disbelief: Valery has always underestimated his artistic talent, considering it only a hobby to pass the time, and he can't see his talent.

He takes Valery’s face in his hands and forces him to look into his eyes: "Your drawings are beautiful, I've always told you. Why doesn’t it get in that thick skull of yours?"

Valery rubs his nose against his: "You only say it because you're in love with me."

"No, I say this because I think so, and so does that man, who is a gallerist and isn’t in love with you. At least I hope so, otherwise I will have to kill him."

Valery laughs, throwing his head back, then looks back at Lucas' business card and bites his lower lip: the idea is intriguing, but it’s still hard to believe that his drawings deserve so much attention.

"What do you say?" He asks Boris.

"Let's go visit his gallery, and if you still have doubts, we will forget it. But I say you should try: you're good, you’ve talent, and I'm ready to repeat it every day, over and over, until you convince yourself," Boris insists, deadly serious.

"Oh dear, you really would do it."

"My darling Valera, you told me that I’m a stubborn man, now you force me to live up to it."

"Agreed, then."

Lucas’ gallery has a large section of modern and contemporary art that leaves both Valery and Boris perplexed, but also two rooms where he displays more traditional paintings, and the man really believes that Valery's drawings are good.

"Your technique is good, Mr. Legasov, your subjects are wonderful and show a profound sensitivity," Lucas exclaims, "I’ve been doing this job for a lifetime, and I have learned to recognize a talent at a first glance."

When they leave the gallery, Valery is still hesitant, and it’s Boris who encourages him to throw himself into this new adventure, promising that he will be his manager and will take care of all the nuisances, so that Valery can devote himself only to drawing, and in the end Valery decides to try: after all he has nothing to lose if it goes wrong.

One day, after having finished painting the marina of Bonifacio, Valery takes a step away from the easel and tried to look at the drawing objectively, shaking off his paranoia, observing it with the eyes of Boris or Lucas.

And he realizes that his drawing is beautiful: the colours are harmonious, like a melody, they inspire feelings of peace and tranquility, there is the right light, and the proportions are correct. Yes, it’s a drawing that belongs to an art gallery, and he’s satisfied with what he did.

It took some time to learn to appreciate himself.

It took having someone by his side who believed in him.

He wipes his hands on a rag and takes off his apron, walking barefoot to the living room: Boris is sitting on the sofa reading the newspaper, frowning at what's going on in the world and muttering things like, _"back in my day it would have never happened,"_ and _"the world is fucked."_

Boris has always believed in him, about important things and small things.

He believed that Valery could discover the flaw of the RMBK reactors.

He believed in their relationship, he believed that it could work, even if Valery have had only short, unsuccessful and unimportant relationships in his life.

He believed in his talent for painting.

Boris came late in his life, and Valery will always regret it a little, because he’d have liked to have much more time to spend together, but since he came, Boris became his precious, irreplaceable rock.

Valery sits on the sofa and kisses him on the cheek, closing the newspaper.

"You were right."

"Obviously."

"Don't you want to know about what?"

"It makes no difference, I'm always right."

Valery shakes his head and hugs him. Perhaps his rock is lacking in humbleness, but in Valery's eyes, he's fine like the way he is.

"I was talking about my drawings."

"Hn," Boris grunts, "it was time for you to realize how good you are."

"I want to draw you."

"Again?"

"Again."

"Okay, but this drawing stays here, it doesn't go to Lucas’: I don't want my buttocks framed and hung in the waiting room of a dental practice in Marseille."

Valery bursts out laughing and smacks Boris playfully on his thigh.

It can’t be said that Valery becomes a famous painter, but during the tourist season many people stop in front of Lucas’ gallery and want one of his ink drawings, and Anita can boast with her friends that monsieur Valery gives them to her for free.

Bonifacio, October 30th, 1999

France has just passed the law on civil partnership, and Boris and Valery are among the first ones to apply to sign the papers: they already consider themselves married, but having a legal cover for their relationship makes them feel more at ease.

In Bonifacio they have some acquaintances, but very few close friends, so they invite only Lucas and Anita to the ceremony, and both the gallery owner and their housekeeper are incredibly happy for them.

Their housekeeper insists to arrange at least a small reception and has already some ideas for a menu, even though Valery and Boris still don't know the date when they can sign the papers.

"Anita, there’s no need to do something big, it will be just us," Valery protests, as he helps the woman clean the vegetables for lunch in the kitchen.

"But monsieur Valery, it’s not a true wedding without a reception!"

"Technically it’s not a wedding, it’s a civil partnership, the French law says that they are two different things."

"I don’t give a rat’s ass about what they say in Paris, of course it's a wedding!" The woman replies, bringing her hands to her hips, as if she were personally offended by Valery's remark, "there are already the rings, there are the promises, there are the feelings," she insists, tapping two fingers on Valery’s chest, “and don’t let monsieur Boris hear you saying that it’s not a wedding! He’s putting a lot of effort on it."

 _Monsieur_ Boris is in the living room, on the phone with an employee of the town hall, intent on solving a small bureaucratic obstacle to their union.

Valery leans against the living room door, and looks at him as Boris leafs through the documents and takes notes.

Boris perceives his lover’s gaze on him, because he turns around, points at the papers and scoffs, but then smiles at him.

_"A nuisance, but don't worry, I'll fix it quickly."_

Valery nods.

_"Thank you, Borja."_

The professor walks back to the kitchen and plants a delicate kiss on Anita’s forehead: "Do you know what? You're right: to hell with what they say in Paris, it's a wedding."

"That's better."

"And you know what else should be at a wedding? The guests. But don't say anything to my monsieur," he begs, pressing a finger on his lips.

"Oh, I'll be quiet as a mouse!"

Valery wants it to be a surprise for Boris: since they left Moscow, years ago, they never went back, not even for a short vacation. It has never been a problem to Valery, a naturally lonely and introverted man (besides he didn’t leave on good terms with Velikhov and his other colleagues), but he knows that Boris sometimes misses his old acquaintances and the city itself, even if he never complained, so Valery wants to invite some of his old friends to the wedding.

Valery has kept in touch with Ulana along the years, exchanging letters and phone calls, and she kept him informed about what was happening in Russia, and also about some gossip about them.

When they moved together to Vienna, Valery and Boris didn’t hand out flyers to advertise the news, but neither did they hide it, and so several people came to know about it.

Ulana told Valery that many people didn’t take it well, some were outraged, some started to behave as if Boris and Valery had never existed, some said nothing: even if they had no problems with what the two of them did with their lives, the social climate didn’t invite to speak.

Maybe that's why Boris never asked Valery to go back to Moscow.

However, Valery want to contact some old acquaintances of Boris: he hopes that there is someone who is glad to know that Boris is happy, even if they may not fully understand their relationship.

And if he can't find anyone, well, at least he tried: Boris deserves the attempt.

One morning Valery waits for Boris to go to the town hall to settle some details, and he lifts the phone.

"Hi Ulya, it’s Valery: I have news for you, and I also need your help."

It’s the morning before the day of the ceremony.

Boris hasn’t yet fully awakened that he’s already making a list of the things to do in his mind: picking up the suits from the laundry, checking that Valery hasn’t mixed up the documents to be brought to the town hall among his drawings (again), withdrawing the money to give to Anita for the reception.

But first, breakfast.

He extends an arm to wake Valery, as he does every morning, but the other half of the bed is empty and cold.

On the pillow there is a note: _"Don't worry, I'll be back before lunch."_

Boris smiles: he has understood weeks ago that Valery is plotting a surprise for him; the day before, he even closed himself one hour in the bathroom with the phone, whispering softly to someone.

Valery has never been very good at keeping secrets, but this time Boris can't imagine what it’s about. To tell the truth, he didn’t tried too hard to guess what it is, because he doesn’t want to frustrate Valery's efforts to surprise him.

For this reason, when a few hours later two taxis stop in front of their house, he is astonished: Valery brought in from Russia Ulana, Tatyana, his former secretary, Pikalov and Tarakanov, and even his old friend Danylo Litvak.

It’s the latter to come forward first to greet him.

"Borenka, my god, what have you done?" The man roars. He stops in front of him, looking him up and down, and for an instant the tension makes everyone hold their breath, then Danylo screams: "Time hasn’t been kind to you, you bull!"

Boris slaps a hand loudly on Danylo’s bald head, "Do you have the guts to speak? Tell me, did you forget your hair in Kiev?"

A beat, then the two men burst out in a coarse laugh and hug, patting each other vigorously on the back.

The other guests come forward to greet him, and while Boris hugs them one by one, his eyes seek those of Valery.

 _"Thank you, it's a wonderful gift,"_ he says silently.

_"I'm happy you like it, love."_

"Can you stop?" Ulana sighs, standing next to Valery.

The scientist frowns: "What have we done?"

"You are so happy it sucks, here."

Valery looks back at Boris.

"Yes, we are."

A lunch in a restaurant overlooking the sea is the occasion to dig up the old days and talk about their lives, but when Pikalov is about to pour red wine into Boris' glass, he covers it with his hand.

"No, I don’t drink anymore, Vladimir."

"What? You? You're joking, right?"

"Never been so serious."

"Well, now this is a shocking news!" Danylo exclaims, making the whole table laugh.

"And I quit smoking," Valery adds.

"Oh god, and haven’t you gone mad?" asks Ulana, who is still laughing.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear you," Valery mutters.

Sitting next to him, Boris mouths _"it has been terrible,"_ but Valery sees him and elbows him in the ribs.

"Why did you stop drinking?" Tarakanov wants to know, and Boris taps two fingers on his chest: "My heart threw a tantrum."

While he tells about his heart attack and the following surgery, he grabs Valery's hand under the table, stroking it with his thumb, because he knows that the memory of what happened still upsets his lover.

In the afternoon, Boris and Valery show Bonifacio to their friends, including Lucas’ art gallery and Valery's drawings, and finally they take them back to the hotel, making plans for the next morning meeting at the town hall.

Ulana and Tatyana whisper conspiratorially between them, earning a suspicious look from Boris, and finally his former secretary blocks their way.

"Ah no, you can't both go home."

"What, why?"

"Because it’s the tradition: the grooms can’t sleep together the night before the wedding. One of you must sleep here in the hotel: Ulana and I will give him our room."

"Oh, for god’s sake..." Boris grumbles, "Valery and I have been together for years, it makes no sense."

He turns to Valery in search of help, but he shrugs with a smile, nudging their guests: "It’s the tradition. I go home with Ulya and Tanya: they will sleep in our guest room."

"I don't have a change of clothes!" Boris objects.

"We will bring it to you later."

Boris grumbles again, but Danylo throws an arm around his neck, "It's a great idea: maybe you girls will be able to dissuade Legasov from marrying this less than reputable bull of a man."

Boris jokingly twists his arm: "Watch out Danya, I have a past in the army, I know how to make a corpse disappear without leaving a trace."

Just the time to say goodbye, and the group of men entering the hotel is already engrossed in a discussion on politics.

"They will go on all night, right?" Ulana asks.

"Oh, it wouldn't surprise me," Tatyana replies.

"Don't you want to join them?"

"Hell no!" the woman replies, raising her arms in surrender, "now that I'm retired I don't want to hear anything about politics."

After dinner, Tatyana pets one of the many stray cats that Valery cares, sitting on the sofa, while Ulana watches the framed photographs scattered around the house.

"Your photos are very beautiful Valery, I didn't know about this talent of yours."

"Thank you."

"However your subjects are... so to speak... a bit repetitive: you and Boris, Boris and... Boris again. Someone has a kind of fixation."

Valery mumbles something unintelligible, blushing, while Tatyana laughs loudly: "You have to understand him, Ulana: when Shcherbina worked in the Kremlin, many of us swooned over him. Despite his fearful facade, he was a charismatic man."

"Many... of-of us?" Valery stutters.

Tatyana shrugs, "I was her secretary for eighteen years... a girl can dream. However, he has always been a gentleman: he could have taken advantage of his position and his charm, but to my knowledge, he never broke anyone's heart."

Valery knows well how serious Boris is about love: he still remembers the words he said to him after their first kiss, _"If we do it, to me it’s forever, I’ve no plan B, no backdoor exit from us."_

"I'm lucky, I know. Well ladies, tomorrow will be a long day, I wish you good night."

The next morning Tatyana leaves first to bring Boris his suit, while Ulana waits for Valery, who is finishing up getting ready.

"You could go to the town hall too, Ulya," Valery shouts from the bedroom as he fights with his tie in front of the mirror.

"I'm here to save you in case you collapse."

"I'm not so nervous."

"Instead you are."

"Nonsense," Valery replies angrily: he isn’t bothered so much by Ulana’s light joke, but by his hands, which seem to have forgotten how to make a simple knot, "fuck!"

Ulana knocks, but goes in without waiting for an answer.

"Hey, any problem?"

"It's this stupid tie that..." Valery sighs, letting his arms fall to his sides.

Ulana goes to his rescue, and helps him to make a dignified knot.

"Am I ridiculous?"

"Everyone makes themselves a bit ridiculous before getting married, this is a tradition, too."

Valery lifts his lips in a faint smile: "I shouldn't be nervous, there's no reason, Boris and I have actually been together for years, we already know that this is forever, even without the wedding."

"And yet..."

"The fact is that last night I couldn’t sleep, so I thought about our relationship, about everything he did for me, everything he gave to me, and... Boris really loves me with all of himself, it's an almost overwhelming feeling, Ulya."

"This makes me a little envious, but forgive me, I still can't understand why you're so upset."

"I started to wonder if in these years I’ve been up to his love."

Ulana flickers him on the cheek, painfully enough to make Valery step away, as he gives her an outraged look.

"Don't look at me like that: if Boris were here now, he would do the same thing. And what would he say to you?"

Valery takes a deep breath to calm himself, and really tries to imagine what Boris would say to him.

"That I am a fool, and that love isn’t something that should be deserved or earned."

"Indeed. And then you gave him your love too. Not to mention the way you look at him and talk to him with your eyes... don't you love him in the same way?"

"Yes, I love him with my whole being."

Ulana caresses his face: "Then stop worrying about this silly nonsense. And let's hurry up: if we make Boris wait a little longer, he will send Tarakanov, Pikalov, and the entire Russian army to see why we're late."

"You are right. How am I look like?"

"Like someone who can't wait to get married."

Valery chose a old suit for the occasion, to be precise the blue one he wore the day they met: he wants to tell Boris that to him everything started back then and nothing has changed, although many years have passed.

An inattentive observer would say that Boris is calm, while he’s waiting to sign the paper, elegant as always in his light gray suit, but Valery manages to perceive a certain emotion in his posture, more rigid than usual: he isn’t the only one to be nervous for this moment.

Boris turns to look at him, as Valery crosses the room to reach the desk. His walk isn’t his usual clumsy one: Valery is confident as he reaches him in a few wide strides; he smiles, takes his hand and holds it as they sit and listen to the words of the council member of the Municipality.

The ceremony itself would be very aseptic, if it weren't for their intertwined fingers, the happy looks they exchange from time to time, the presence of their friends sitting behind them, and Ulana, to whom Valery has entrusted his precious camera, who captures the moment.

"You’re my husband now," Boris murmurs, once the documents are signed, "you can’t run away anymore."

"I hope so," Valery replies.

They’re ready to go home for the reception, when Danylo stops them.

"Oh no, you can't leave like that, without the most important thing of all."

Boris and Valery look at him without understanding, and Danylo raises theatrically his arms to the sky: "We didn't cross half a continent to attend a wedding without even a kiss. Come on," he elbows hard Boris in the ribs, "Don't be shy! Or don't you remember how to do it? If you need it, I can refresh your memory..."

He approaches Valery, who hides behind Boris, shocked, while Tarakanov shakes his head and grabs the bridge of his nose between two fingers: "Oh my god, and he hasn't drunk anything yet."

Meanwhile Boris keeps him at arm's length: "Danja, the threat to kill you is still valid. And with regards to kisses, you are the one who must look and take note."

That said, he grabs Valery by the waist, makes him bend slightly backwards, and captures his lips in a kiss that leaves him breathless.

"Forgive Danja," he whispers in his ear, "he's loud, but harmless."

"I know, love, but if he only pretends to kiss me again, I’ll stab him with a fork."

"You have my permission."

The reception ends with Anita, Lucas, Tatyana and Danylo, a bit too much inebriated, improvising a dance in the living room, Boris, Nikolai and Vladimir sitting around the table, talking about politics (again), and Valery making a tea for Ulana in the kitchen.

He took off his jacket and tie, as well as Tarakanov and Pikalov. Only Boris is still pristine as he was that morning.

"Tell me, does he take off his tie at least when he comes to bed, yes?"

"I don’t kiss and tell," Valery replies with a chuckle.

"No, really: I think he came out of his mother's womb with a suit on."

"Hey, you're talking about my husband!"

"Tell me I'm wrong."

"No," Valery admits, lowering his voice.

"Does he dress like that even when you go to the beach?"

"He usually sits in the car in the parking lot and reads the newspaper. Wearing a suit, yes."

Ulana looks at him in disbelief, and Valery shrugs: "The suit is a second skin for him: he also goes shopping for groceries wearing jacket, tie and patent leather shoes."

"Wouldn't you like to see him out of his comfort zone?"

"I don't see how it's possible."

Ulala whispers something in his ear, and Valery’s eye widen: "He will kill me!"

"But it would be fun."

Boris is giving Vladimir some advice on real estate properties and financial investments, as the general will retire in a couple of years, but he doesn’t fail to observe the exchange between Valery and Ulana.

When their friends leave, to return to Russia the next day, Valery and Boris have the house to their own again.

Boris silently observed him all evening, and in the end Valery no longer bears that inquisitive look and bursts out: "What?"

"That should be my line: what did you and Ulana plot today?" He asks, bringing his hands on his husband’s hips.

"Plot, what a big word. We were just talking."

Boris takes off his glasses, placing them on the table, "Alright, what did you talk about, then?"

"Oh, a little of everything."

The more vague Valery is, the more Boris becomes suspicious; he sighs and takes off his shirt, pushing his husband towards their bedroom: "You are and you will always be a terrible liar, Valery Alekseevič. Should I expect another surprise?"

Valery throws his sweater and shirt to the floor: "Well, you liked this one."

"Yes, it made me very happy," Boris murmurs, sliding a finger along Valery's chest down to the button of his trousers, "But I want to know what Ulana suggested to you. I trust you, but her…? Not so much."

"I'm sorry, my lips are sealed."

"We'll see," replies Boris, throwing Valery on the bed with a playful growl.

Boris doesn’t rip his secret from his lips, but some lovely love screams that are equally satisfying.

However, it’s not too long before Valery reveals his surprise: one morning Boris finds two flight tickets to Hawaii on his pillow.

"It's our honeymoon, three weeks on our own, in Maui, in a bungalow with a private beach overlooking a lagoon," Valery explains, "it's all planned, we just have to pack and go."

"Did you organize everything?"

Valery shrugs, as if to say he hasn't done anything extraordinary.

"Yes. With the help of the travel agency down the square, of course."

"I have the best husband in the world," Boris murmurs, stroking his cheek with his thumb: it's incredibly sweet that Valery, who hates dealing with these things, has taken on the task of organizing a three-week trip, travel and administrative nuisances included.

The journey to Hawaii is long and the jet lag is quite heavy for both of them. Fortunately, Valery followed the advice of the travel agent, and booked a night in a hotel in New York, to rest before the next flight.

They’re too tired to visit the city, so in the evening they order room service.

From the window there’s a beautiful view on Manhattan.

"So what do you think?" Valery asks, cutting his steak, "quite different from the landscapes we are used to."

"They’re showing off, with all these lights," Boris mutters, "but the city has its own charm, it’s beautiful."

He puts his fork on the plate, looks out, lost in his thoughts, then barks a chuckle, and a moment later he’s fully laughing.

"What?" Valery asks. He starts laughing too, without knowing why, because Boris' laughter has always been contagious to him.

"Nothing, I was just thinking... we are in the United States. The two of us. Would you have ever imagined that a few years ago?"

Valery laughs louder, and has to put down his glass so as not to spill water on the tablecloth. Boris is right: two former Soviets men, a deputy director of a nuclear energy institute, and a reputable member of the Communist Party, are now in the city symbol of their former sworn enemy.

Thinking about it, it's really funny.

"Hey Boris, what if you said that a few years ago during a meeting with Gorbachev: _‘oh, by the way, next month I'll go on my honeymoon with my husband in the United States’..._ just imagine their faces!"

Valery's words cause another round of coarse laughters.

"Boris, you're ridiculous, get out of there!"

"The only ridiculous thing is these clothes you bought!"

"For years you chose my outfits: I want to have carte blanche on beachwear."

"No way, I'm not going around wearing these..."

Valery rises his arm to the sky and looks at the closed door with exasperation: "Do you realize that you’ve locked yourself in the bathroom like a teenager who is throwing a tantrum, because of some clothes?"

"Because of some ridiculous clothes. They have flowers printed on them, Valery, flowers. I thought you had my dignity at heart."

"You can't walk around in a three-piece suit and tie in Maui! There will be thirty degrees out there!"

They’re in their bungalow in Hawaii, shortly after their arrival, and Valery is trying to convince Boris to take a first tour of Maui wearing less formal clothes, but the task doesn’t appear to be easy.

"Come on Boris, I’m wear bermudas and a floral shirt, too."

"You consider mustard and violet a nice colour combination, your opinion doesn’t count."

Valery massages his temples: he is having a headache.

"All right, spend our honeymoon closed in the bathroom, I'm leaving now."

A beat, then Boris grumbles: "Wait, I’m coming," and finally opens the door.

"There! Was it so difficult?"

"I feel naked with these clothes."

"Stop exaggerating everything!"

"No, it's true!"

Undoubtedly it’s an unusual vision, that of Boris wearing a large light blue short sleeves shirt with pink flowers printed on it, but when Valery's gaze falls on the white bermudas, he understands what Boris means: he tucked the shirt in and this highlights his genitals in a very obscene way.

"Boris, this kind of shirt is meant to be worn untucked."

"I've never done anything like that in my whole life."

"Well, you will do it now!"

Valery will not allows some random strangers to ogle at his husband's nuts.

Fortunately the shirt is long enough to cover his crotch, and they can go out, although Boris continues to complain that, dressed like that, they look like two outcasts run away from home.

Later, as Boris is booking a boat trip to Moloka’i Island, he hears Valery's camera shoot.

"Oh, now I understand," he grumbles as they walk to the marina.

"Do you understand what?"

"What were you and Ulana talking about on our wedding day."

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that.”

Valery can't suppress an amused smile: “I admit it: she suggested me that it would be funny to see you outside your comfort zone, for example wearing casual clothes, on a tropical beach."

Boris looks at his camera with malevolence, and Valery goes on: "Ah yes, and she could have asked me for a photographic proof."

Boris' frown intensifies.

"And Danylo might have asked me for a copy."

"Traitor!"

Valery takes his arm and puts his head on his shoulder, laughing.

"I find you elegant even dressed like that."

"Panderer."

A few nights later, they are sitting on the porch of the bungalow, hoping that a breeze will come from the sea, but it's really hot, despite the sun has set hours ago.

Valery is making preparatory sketches of some local flowers they have seen in recent days, for some new drawings he has in mind, and sips iced tea.

At one point, Boris gets up and undresses methodically, leaning his clothes on the chair, under Valery’s stunned eyes.

"What are you doing?" He whispers in alarm, when Boris remains completely naked.

"It's hot."

"But Borja..."

“What is the use of having a private beach, if you don't take advantage of it on these occasions?”

He walks towards the ocean, but when he sees that Valery doesn’t follow him, turns and extends an arm towards him.

"Come on, let’s have a swim."

But Valery stays with his butt firmly planted on his chair, and shakes his head.

"No, it's too dark."

"The moon will rise soon, and the water in the lagoon is calm, there is no danger."

"I won't have my balls stung by a jellyfish I can't see."

"You can keep the bermudas on, even if it's a pity."

Valery blushes and squirms in his chair: no matter how many years have passed, or that they’re older now, Boris' innuendo never fail to arouse him.

However, he doesn’t want to go in the water, but would rather not confess to Boris the real reason, and suggests an alluring alternative: "What do you say about this: I take off my bermudas, but we go to bed."

Something in Valery's resistance to take a nightly swim hits Boris; he approaches him, studies his face, and then looks at him with an incredulous smile.

"You, my dear husband, can't swim."

Valery looks down and mumbles: "Nonsense."

"You really can't swim. Now I can explain everything: four years in Bonifacio and you've never set foot in the water, with yours _'I prefer to spend time on the beach painting', 'today I just want to sunbathe', 'I'm too tired to swim'_ and _'the sea is rough, it’s windy, maybe next time'._ "

"I grew up in Tula, there is no sea there."

"But there are swimming pools."

"I've never been able to learn, okay?"

"You never told me."

"It's not something to brag about at my age."

Boris takes his hand and makes him stand up, taking off his glasses and unbuttoning his shirt: "It's never too late to learn. Maybe you just need the right teacher," Boris murmurs, brushing Valery’s nipples with his thumbs.

"Hmm, you can be very convincing."

Valery finishes undressing, lets Boris guide him in the pleasantly cool water, and follows his directions when he tells him to lie on his back.

"Pull your head back, raise your hips and open your arms. For now just try to float, get familiar with the water. And remember I'm here."

Boris' hands are under his back, ready to support him in case he sinks, and Valery relaxes, because he knows that Boris will never let him go.

"Like that, very good. See? It wasn’t that difficult."

"You’re right. And it's very pleasant."

"Agree. And the view, from here, is priceless."

Boris' gaze runs across his naked body, and Valery laughs; then a glow on the surface of the water catches its attention.

"What is that?"

For a long, embarrassing moment he fears that someone on a dinghy or a boat has discovered them, naked in the lagoon, but then he sees that it’s only the reflection of the moon on the water.

Boris helps him to stand up straight, Valery passes his arms around Boris’ waist and rests his head on his chest, and they both look at it in silence: it seems that thousands of golden fragments are floating on the water, drawing a path leading up to to the moon.

"It's beautiful," Valery murmurs, his eyes on the water.

"Yes, it’s."

Valery looks up and realizes that Boris is watching him, not the moon.

"Borja, I'm serious."

"Me too."

"No, but really," Valery takes Boris’ hand and rests it on the water, intertwining their fingers, "it's so beautiful that it looks like something otherworldly, like a miracle."

Valery wonders if it's the right time to mention... maybe yes. He looks back at him, smiling.

"Is this what led you to me, Borja, a miracle?" He asks quietly.

A moment of silent complicity passes between them: they know it, they both know it.

Boris rests his lips on Valery’s forehead that tastes of salt: "A miracle opened the way for me, but it was my will to make me go through it," he murmurs, touching the luminous path on the surface of the water.

"To get to me?"

"Yes."

"Oh, wow... was...?"

"If you're going to ask me if it was worth it, I'll drown you," Boris warns, and Valery hides a smile on his chest.

"Are you angry because I never told you?" Boris asks, and there is a note of hesitation in his voice.

"No, no. I mean, it's something so crazy that in your place I wouldn't have known how to say it, too."

"Valera..."

"Yes?"

Valery looks up at him: Boris is incredibly serious and solemn, perhaps like he has never been.

"I never tried to deceive you to make you fall in love with me, believe me. If you had wanted us to be only friends, I would have accepted it. The choice has always been in your hands, I just wanted to know that you were alive and safe, and..."

Valery interrupts him by slipping his tongue into his mouth, making Boris feel all his love, and runs his hand through his gray hair in a sweet caress.

"I know, my love," he reassures him, and looks at him with absolutely serene eyes, "you've always been a very respectful gentleman. On the other side, it was me who desperately tried to make you understand that I was interested in you."

"Actually, you were very explicit," Boris whispers, remembering their first kiss and all of Valery's feelings enclosed in that clumsy clash of lips.

"Well, if it was up to me, we would have ended up in bed the second or third time you came to see me in my apartment."

Boris raises an eyebrow, shocked by the confession: "Since then?"

"Borja, I had your portrait in my sketchbook! I would say that was a rather solid clue of what I felt for you."

"Hm... anyway, I'm glad we weren't just friends. I mean, you're my best friend too, but what we have is perfect."

"Yes, it has been beautiful."

"It still is."

Suddenly, Valery's smile fades a little, as he returns to hug Boris.

"I love you, I love you so much that I fear the moment this will end," he confesses, shuddering despite the hot and humid night.

"If I recall correct, you didn’t want to talk about death."

"You’re right, I wouldn't want to. But it's inevitable, isn't it?"

"I know, my love."

Boris closes his eyes: Valery is right, it's inevitable to think about it. He already knows that when it happens, it will be heartbreaking for the one who will remain, but he doesn’t want to surrender to the idea that everything ends forever with death.

If such crazy things as time machines and alternative timelines exist, then he wants to believe that the journey can start again, in another time and another place, once it ends here.

"There is an after," he asserts confidently.

"Does an atheist like you believe in paradise?"

"No, I'm not talking about paradise, but about an after, about something that starts again after this timeline."

"Do you really believe it or just hope so?"

Boris rests a hand on Valery's nape, gently rocking him: "After what I experienced? I’m sure. And when it happens, I'll come and look for you again, I promise."

"Next time I can look for you."

"Valerka, you get lost when we go on a trip to Ajaccio," Boris exclaims, with an amused light in his eyes.

Valery snorts, but he smiles too.

"No," continues Boris, "stay where you are and I'll find you. Just… wait for me."

"I'll do it," Valery replies, raising a hand to stroke Boris face, so dear to him, "I'll wait for you all my life, if necessary."

"To the next time, then."

"To all the other next times."

A long kiss under the moon seals their promise.

After their honeymoon, they don't travel much anymore: a few weekends in Paris and in Sardinia, a holiday in Portugal and one in Rome, which inspire Valery for new drawings, but the thing that makes them happiest is to live together in their house.

And so, the years pass between walks along the narrow streets of the town, breakfasts in the garden overlooking the sea, photographs, art exhibitions, phone calls with their friends, some bickering because Valery never stops being messy and Boris continues to fight against his untidiness, stray cats dozing in the sun on a window sill, kisses, intertwined fingers, hugs, long chats in the bed.

Life.

\- FIN -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely comrades, it's over.  
> It was an intense and exciting journey; when I started writing this story, although I had the whole plot in mind, I thought it would be much shorter, I didn't think it would take me so far, but here we are, and I'm happy with the way the journey ended.  
> The starting cue of this fandom is a tragic real event, but I wanted to offer words of hope: for this reason the story ends with the word "life", because life always wins, like that little caterpillar that Stellan holds in his hands in the last episode.  
> Finally, I want to thank all of you who have followed and commented on this story: your words and your wonderful insight have contributed to make this story better.
> 
> Do you remeber Danylo Litvak? He's Boris' friend who, in chapter 9, warns him that in Chernobyl they're messing up.
> 
> A last easter egg: the suits Boris and Valery wears during the civil partnership ceremony are those of the header of the fic.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [You are My Morning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21050150) by [Yelhsabeech](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yelhsabeech/pseuds/Yelhsabeech)




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